Dragon Age: Origins
by Sujesstive
Summary: Revised edition of a story I abandoned a few years ago, following all seven of the Wardens Duncan recruited to bolster the numbers of the Ferelden Grey for the Fifth Blight. Please, enjoy, and hopefully my writing has gotten less cringe-worthy after all this time.
1. The Shit We Do For Friends

**The Shit We Do For Friends**

_Starting from the Circle, Duncan moves across Thedas, picking up all the recruits he can in an effort to bolster the Ferelden Grey against the Blight. M!Amell, F!Surana, M!Brosca, F!Aeducan, M!Cousland, F!Tabris, M!Mahariel. I started a version of this like...two years ago, but my writing was pretty terrible. I was in too much of a rush, so I've come back to it now, more carefully, with slightly changed characters. The Wardens are their own, and I merely write whatever it is they want me to. I own nothing here_.

* * *

Daylen Amell stretched over his large _double_ bed in contentment. A mage's bed. No more Jowan above him, tossing and turning and whispering nonsense in Arcanum. No, this bed, this whole room, was his and his alone. Sweet, precious privacy; a luxury in this tower where a mage's every move was hounded by the ever watchful eyes of the Templars.

Not that he didn't miss the presence of his best friend, but….the bed. Wide. Spacious. Soft. Another person could easily fit in beside, or beneath him even more comfortably. Rather than those narrow single bunks in the apprentice dorms he could take all the time he wanted, and make his bed-mate scream as loud as he wanted. No more hushed, efficient love-making for Daylen. No, here he would have he luxury of time to perfect his non-magical arts.

Daylen stretched again and smiled at the thought. Who would be the one he would christen the bed with? Petra, with her sweet, shy eyes and full, pink lips? To make he squirm and scream would be a pleasure indeed. Fiery Leli with her burning hatred for the Circle? Such fieriness could commend a bed-mate. Or perhaps devout Keili? Daylen was sure he could show her the blessings of a mage's touch given enough time in this wonderful _large_ bed and private quarters. Lost in his imaginings Daylen didn't hear the soft footfalls that approached his bed side.

"Well, I'm glad you're happy, at least," chastised a soft, musical voice that pull Daylen out of his reverie. The mage opened his golden brown eyes to Neria Surana worrying her bottom lip in a way that made lesser men's blood race. To Daylen it was merely adorable, swelling his chest with innocent affection - a term he almost laughed out loud thinking - for his dearest friend.

Neria Surana was definitely beautiful, even if Daylen only thought of her as a sister, as unlikely as the blood relation would ever be with her long, tapered elven ears. She had long icy blonde hair that curled into ringlets just past her shoulders to fall down to her waist. With her pale skin, bleached from years spent indoors, sweet birdlike features and bright clear blue eyes with flecks of gold, Neria looked like a spirit of the Fade made mortal. It made sense she was Wynne's protege - only one of two Spirit Healers to pass their Harrowing.

Their little triumvirate was a study in contrasts, with sweet, pure Neria the axis on which it turned. Both Daylen and Jowan had dark hair and eyes, with Daylen remaining golden skinned despite the oppressive lack of sunlight in his life. Where Neri was a healer at heart, with a Spirit protector of all things, Daylen was a born battle mage, wielding the elements like a force of nature, and Jowan was, while relatively weak, an entropic mage that caused them all enough suffering without the aid of his magic, if truth be told. Neri was sweet and compassionate where Daylen was wild and uncontrollable and Jowan was cold and unforgiving. No wonder people stared at them when they would study in the library together. It really didn't make sense that three unlikely mages would be so close to one another.

"What's not to be happy about, Neri?" asked Daylen, sitting up with his back against the head board of his bed as the elven mage sat down on the edge of his bed with the grace of a woman who walked on air. She shot her friend a withering glare that would have turned Daylen to an unmoving black of ice if she had a mind to. He'd seen it before, and watched, with a healthy dose of fear for his seemingly pretty and sweet friend, as the Templars had chipped the ice that froze Anders' hands to the library wall. Anders had been lucky that frostbite was the largest complaint he'd had after that incident.

"Jowan is really upset. He's convinced they're going to make him Tranquil," sighed Neria, her lower lip quivering with unshed tears, looking down at her hands as they fidgeted anxiously. Daylen rolled his eyes, scooting down the bed to run his warm hands up Neria's arms soothingly. He felt the tension that made them shake slowly ebb out of her body. Watching out for her small bouts of anxiety was another part of their friendship other people had never quite understood.

When Neria had come to the tower, well after Jowan and himself, she had been little more than a mess of tears and snot that shook, curled up in a ball like a beaten dog. Daylen, unable to sleep through a third straight day of her panicked hyperventilating and quiet sobs had rolled out of his bed and crawled into bed with the other child, holding her as he let a little of his natural fire flow out through his skin to warm up the straining muscles in her body. Ever since that night he held her and both of them had finally got some sleep, Neria had never left his side, and he kept a careful dark eye out for her panic attacks. Sometimes Neria would chuckle through her panicked sobs and tell him he was better than a hot water bottle and a teddy bear combined and he would grit her teeth and make her promise not to tell anyone. He had enough trouble getting women out of his bed after a quick bout of lovemaking without them finding out he was an experienced cuddler. That only seemed to make her chuckle more.

"Jowan is just being dramatic, Neri. He's jealous we've both been here shorter than he and already passed our Harrowing, living in these amazing _human sized_ beds." Daylen flashed her his sweetest, most charming smile, the kind only she could bring out of him and Neria returned a small, shy one of her own. At her throat the small and battered amulet with Andraste's face on it flashed and Daylen stopped himself from rolling his eyes that she still wore the damned thing. A gift from a Templar of all things, when she was brought to the Circle. She was almost as bad as pious Keili, without all the self-hatred the other Andrastian had, constantly lecturing him and Jowan when the pair got them all into trouble. Daylen was sure he would hate her if she weren't also the most compassionate and loving person he'd ever known, even before coming to the Tower. Not even the Templars could knock that out of the born healer.

"Maybe we could see him, Neri, together," suggested Daylen as he still ran his heated hands down her arms and the back of her thin robes, feeling the tension drain out of her at his words. She smiled up at him through her long lashes, that bright Neria smile that would make any man happily walk off the roof of the Tower if it would bring that smile back. Daylen took a special joy in making those all too infrequent dazzling smiles appear on her sweet face.

"Ahem," coughed a Templar at the door. No, not a Templar, corrected Daylen as he took in the man in his heavy plate army and bright orange hair. Cullen wasn't a Templar yet, but he soon would be. He had been at Daylen's Harrowing, apparently to kill the dark haired mage if he hadn't succeeded. The thought didn't exactly warm Daylen up to the idea of the pile of clattering plate armour, skirts, madness and hatred against mages standing in his doorway.

"Cullen!" exclaimed Neria, with another of those over-bright smiles of hers as she jumped out of Daylen's hands like she'd been shocked. A pink blush spattered across her cheeks and up the long points of her ears as she quickly demurred. "I-I meant, S-Ser Rutherford…umm..how are you?"

"I-I am good, L-Lady Surana," stammered the Templar-Initiate, his freckled face going blotchy with embarrassment at his awkward speech. Daylen could keep his mouth from gaping wide as he took in the pair, embarrassed, pink and not meeting the other eyes. _Well, smack my arse and call me Hessarian, Neria has a crush on a sodding Templar? Did he just call her Lady? What in the Void just fucking happened?_ Neria had always nursed a sweet spot for Jowan, though Daylen couldn't see the attraction _at all_. It never crossed his minds she would have those same puppy dog eyes for anyone else, let alone a bleeding Templar. Maker, the girl was a secret masochist all along.

"I-uh-First E-Enchanter wanted to see you b-both," Cullen managed before escaping, face alight as if he'd been on the receiving end of an apprentice's careless fireball spell. Neria blinked her dazed ice blue eyes and turned to Daylen slowly. Seeing the incredulity written on his face Neria turned a bright crimson of embarrassment, shifting nervously under his gaze.

"Umm…sooooo…First Enchanter?" she offered, looking at her blue soft soled slippers. Daylen shook himself out of his stunned paralysis, following Neria as she all, but fled his room, jogging to catch up to the crimson, white haired elf.

"Not so fast," barked Daylen and Neria slowed, shoulders hunched as if he had risen a hand at her. "What. In. The. Void. Was. That?" Daylen fought to keep his voice even, not wanting to frighten the skittish woman. She looked at him with those wide doe-like eyes and he regretted the harshness of his tone almost immediately. He wasn't angry with her, not really, more….worried? Maybe? She was going to get herself hurt looking at a Templar like that. They couldn't be trusted. None of them.

"Nothing," whimpered Neria, her tone more high pitched than usual. She was a terrible liar. "Cul-Ser Rutherford watched over me when I was recovering from the Harrowing. It takes a lot out of me to go into the Fade like that, to face that kind of unchained evil, even with Duty beside me. You know that."

Neria's special connection to the Fade, to the Spirit of Duty who had watched over the elven mage for as long as she could remember, not only made her a fantastic healer, easily surpassing Anders and nearly as good as her own mentor, Wynne, but it also made her more susceptible to the dangers of the Fade. She had to be even more vigilant than the average mage against demons, and it made sense the Templars had assigned someone to watch over her after the Harrowing, to ensure that tenuous connection didn't spell her downfall.

"I mean, he was ordered to kill me if I turned, but he assured me he would have felt perfectly wretched about it. And…" at Daylen's darkened expression Neria faltered, picking up the pace. The faster they got to Irving's study, the fast this awkwardness could be quashed. "He's nice, Dayle. He's not like the others. He doesn't hate mages," tried Neria, peeking out from behind a curtain of pale blonde hair, but Daylen's eyes watched her just as hard as ever.

"He's a Templar, Neri. Of course he hates mages. He wouldn't choose to join an armed group of people who like to hunt us down and put us down like rabid dogs when we step out of line otherwise. You can't trust them, any of them," urged Daylen, anger creeping into his voice again and Neria just looked away, worrying at her bottom lip again.

"I can't believe that, Dayle. I can't believe that all of them hate us. Fear us, yes, and they're right to. We _are_ dangerous, and we _need_ to be watched, but I can't believe they _all_ hate us." Neria's voice was quiet, but surprisingly strong with her convictions. Daylen dropped the subject, balling his hands into fists. Neria was too sweet and naive by half. She might not have seen the dark side of the Templars, but he had. He watched them kill his entire family for protecting him. He had watched their ridiculously large swords splatter the Amaranthine hovel they had called home with their blood. He remembered his father's horror stories of the Circle in the Free Marches, where his family came from. No, Neria had no idea what these skirted _protectors_ could do.

Daylen's dark thoughts were interrupted by a soft rap of small knuckles against heavy wood. He looked up, surprised they had already reached the First Enchanter's study in his brooding. He schooled his face as Neria shot him a worried glanced and the door opened of it's own accord. Both mages stiffened as they recognised the hulking figure of Knight-Commander Greagoir. Neria all, but hid behind her larger friend as Daylen stepped confidently into the study ahead of her, shoulders wide and eyes concealing the loathing the man felt for the Knight-Commander. Whatever argument he had been having with the First Enchanter, and the calm stranger beside him was stopped abruptly by their appearance, however, and Greagoir stomped from the room in a huff.

"Come in, come in," urged Irving, waving both mages forward as they flicked uncertain and questions glances at the stranger who stood calmly with his hands behind his back. He wore some sort of thin steel armour and had deep brown eyes lined by years of experience that made him look older than the rest of his face. There wasn't even any grey in the neat and trimmed beard or the hair he had brushed back into a ponytail to keep out of his face. "Neria, Daylen, this is Duncan, Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens."

Both mages nodded respectfully at the warrior. No wonder he seemed so aged, thought Neria. Everything se had read about the Grey Wardens cast them in some dark, almost tragically romantic, light. Darkspawn, untimely death and duty above all else didn't exactly make for jovial youths. They were almost always the subject of her favourited Exalted Age tragic romances.

"A pleasure to meet you both," greeted Duncan with a respectful nod of his own. "First-Enchanter Irving has told me much about both of you." The pair exchanged questioning and surprised glances with one another. The Warden merely chuckled. "Evidently you have not been told about me."

"No - I mean…I knew that the King's recruiter came by a few weeks ago to take a few mages with them to Ostagar to fight darkspawn," started Neria. She remembered Wynne hugging her tightly in farewell, sorry she wouldn't be there for her student's Harrowing. "Are you here to recruit more mages for the army?"

"Is that why Greagoir is in such a mood?" added Daylen, smiling as Neria shot him a withering look. The thought of someone else riling up the Knight-Commander tickled Daylen the right way and he grinned at Neria despite her glare. Duncan merely chuckled.

"They are as quick as you said they were, Irving. To answer your questions; no, I'm not here to recruit for the King's Army,but yes, the Knight-Commander is displeased about my presence nonetheless." Daylen merely grinned warmly at the man as Neria cocked her head thoughtfully like a bird, tapping one small finger against her pouted lips.

"Why are you here then?" asked Neria politely. 'You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," she added, hastily, shooting Irving a sheepish look as the older mage chuckled and shook his head at the girl.

"How much do you know about the Grey Wardens?" Daylen laughed himself, gesturing around the study at the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books.

"Little else to do in the Circle, but read, Commander," chuckled Daylen and Neria looked up at her friend in shock at his casual, almost disrespectful tone.

"True," conceded Duncan who traded a look with Irving who shook his head only slightly, but the movement caught Daylen's eye and he narrowed them at the two men thoughtfully. "My business is not important right now. It has been a long trip from Ostagar, and I'm not nearly done yet," sighed Duncan tiredly.

"Please, Surana, Amell, if you would escort the Warden-Commander to the guest quarters so he may rest. The rest of the day is yours. You have done well to pass your Harrowings, and as they say it is your party, after all," smiled Irving benevolently and Neria ducked her head in a mixture of respect and embarrassment as the two mages left the study in the company of Duncan.

Neria all, but bounced with barely restrained excitement as they took Duncan down the hall. Her excitement was almost tangible and Daylen looked down at her, eyebrows raised questioningly at her fidgeting and she stilled with a sheepish smile.

"Good night, Duncan," farewelled Neria with her over-bright smile and the older man merely smiled before ducking into his chambers and Neria looked up at her friend. "How exciting!"

"I don't see what-"

"Neri, Dayle," a familiar and out of breath voice interrupted Daylen as the pair turned to their friend, Jowan's face looking harried and not a just a little bit fearful. He was wringing his hands like Neria did when she worried her lip, thinking about the many things she could control and it made a lump rise in her throat.

"Jowan, what's wrong?" squeaked the elven mage, her earlier excitement bleeding away to worry at the sight of her nervous friend.

"I-I need to speak to both of you…somewhere safe. Can you come to the Chantry? Please," he begged, his voice sounding tearful. "I need your help."

Daylen had subconsciously put his warm hands on Neria as she tightened up, his magic bleeding through his hands to relax her. She smiled slightly in thanks at her tall, human friend. He had really missed his calling as a healer in her opinion. No one could relax her the same way Daylen could when the fear threatened to take her.

"Tell us what's wrong, Jowan," urged Daylen, sparing Neria a worried glance out the corner of his eye. The apprentice just wronged his hands, dark hazel eyes looking lost.

"Please. The Chantry. It's safer to talk there." With that, Jowan was off, almost running. Daylen sighed, a knot forming in his stomach as he looked down at Neria.

"We should go after him, Dayle," Neria managed, calming her breathing, her face set and determined. He nodded stiffly and followed her down the hall to the Chantry. The only person at the altar at this late hour was Keili, no doubt praying to the Maker to take her magic away, thought Daylen in disgust. He couldn't believe that earlier he was fantasising about that self-hating woman earlier. He could never really get involved with someone who bought so fully into the horses hit the Chantry spewed. Such a tryst would make him feel unclean and he hid his shudder of disgust from Neria as she searched for Jowan, finding him kneeling with a Chantry Initiate of all things.

"Jowan!" Neria tried her best to smile warmly through her worry as Jowan looked up at them looking crestfallen. Her smile withered and died on her lips, however, as Jowan rose, looking at the Initiate with tenderness and took her hand in his own. Daylen felt his own heart sink as he watched Neria's break in front of him, wishing he'd found the time to tell her Jowan had a girlfriend. He didn't know it was an Initiate, but Daylen had been aware of his former bunk-mate's relationship with some unknown woman for the past month or so, but had never had the courage to tell Neri. Her broken-hearted look up at Daylen felt like a stab in the chest as her icy blue eyes hardened at his pitying look, her small hands balling up into angry fists. emFuck/em, was all Daylen had time to think before Jowan descended on them with his girlfriend.

"We should be safe here," breathed out Jowan, dark eyes darting to Keili where she knelt, deep in prayer. The woman squeezed his hand reassuringly, making Jowan smile weakly and Neria narrow her eyes. Daylen felt a sense of foreboding at this whole situation. He didn't want to be responsible if Neria decided she would much rather Jowan as a frozen ice sculpture in the Chantry.

"What's going on, Jowan?" asked Daylen, quietly stepping in front of Neria so she would;t freeze Jowan immediately. Not that he felt entirely comfortable that she wouldn't do the same to him. He had seen the hurt and betrayal in those sweet blue eyes of hers, caused just as much by his silence as by Jowan's stupid ignorance.

"I-I told you I had met someone, Dayle. This…This is Lily." Jowan's eyes darted toward the silently fuming Neria worriedly. "I-I was afraid to tell anyone. Lily is training to be a priest…she-she's taken vows," stammered Jowan apologetically, but his words merely crashed over Neria like buckets of icy water. "If anyone found out about this…."

"You can trust us, Jowan," snapped Neria, voice icy and both men felt the very air turn thick with cold. Lily watched on confused and nervous as Neria's icy magic touched her skin.

"I-I know…I'm sorry I kept this a secret for so long…but-but I…"/

"Jowan," pressed Lily gently and Neria shot an icy glare at the woman, that made Daylen's heart jump into his throat. O_ne mad Neria, plus two stupid mages and one completely oblivious Chantry Initiate and the Chantry's going to have three new ice sculptures for Satinalia decorations._

"I-I know why they haven't put me through my Harrowing. They're going to make me Tranquil." Jowan's voice became panicked and Daylen stopped himself from rolling his eyes again. He had been saying the same thing since Neria went to the Harrowing before Daylen a few days ago. "They're going to take everything away from me, everything that makes me a person. I'll just be a husk, merely existing."

"Jowan," groaned Daylen.

"I saw the document, myself," added Lily softly. "It was left on Greagoir's desk, signed by the First-Enchanter himself."

"Why would they?" shrugged Neria, and Daylen glanced back at her, worried at her cold tone. At least the room didn't threaten a blizzard anymore, but she clearly wasn't about to forgive Jowan, or himself for some time.

"There are….rumours-lies that I've been practicing blood magic," explained Jowan. At Neria's hard glare he put up his hands defensively. "It's all lies, Neri, I swear. It's not safe anymore for me here…I-I need to escape, to destroy my phylactery so they can't track me." Things didn't seem to go better with Lily and Jowan's explanation of their plan. Daylen kept from groaning out loud at the stupidity and downright danger of what the couple were asking him and Neria to do. Neria didn't say a word, and her hands never uncurled themselves.

Breaking into the phylactery chamber and helping a mage and a Chantry Initiate escape to tower might actually be the stupidest plan Jowan had come up with in all the years he and Daylen had been friends, and he had plenty of examples of Jowan's stupidity. To think he had found an equally clueless and naive woman to fall in love with only made Daylen seriously doubt their chances of survival on the run from Templars. They wanted either Neria or Daylen to obtain a rod of fire, as if that would stand a chance against a magically sealed door designed to _keep mages out of the Blighted fucking thing._

"Fine," snapped Neria coldly. Jowan's face looked relieved and he smiled as he reached out to clasp Neria on the arm. Electricity skittered over her skin and Jowan jumped back suddenly. "Don't touch me," warned Neria, dangerously and Jowan stepped back cowed.

Daylen shot Jowan an apologetic glance as he chased after Neria who stormed out of the Chantry in a very un-Neria rage. Once the two were in the corridor Neria turned on Daylen with an icy rage.

"You. Knew!" she accused, her voice dangerously low and icy.

"I-Yes, but I didn't want to hurt you…so…okay, that's a terrible excuse," apologised Daylen as she continued to glare at him. "Okay, I was a downright coward. I…just…I didn't think it would last and I…didn't…want to hurt you."

"Oh, well, that worked out just _fantastically_, didn't it?" snarled Neria in a way that actually frightened Daylen. "You're supposed to be my friend, you both are. And you both lied to me."

"Well, we didn't exactly….sorry, I'll shut up," finished Daylen as she glared at him angrily.

"There are enough secrets in this place without you keeping things from me, too," added Neria, her anger turning to melancholy as she looked down at the floor. "I'm not that weak I couldn't handle the truth, Dayle."

Daylen felt like the worst person alive as he wrapped his arms around Neria, squeezing her tightly. He rested his head on her soft white hair as she sobbed quietly into his deep wide chest, moistening the fabric of his robes. He ran a warm hand through her hair comfortingly.

"I'm sorry, Neri. You're right. And Jowan's a fucking fool for choosing that fluff-headed idiot over someone as smart, beautiful and perfect as you. I wish this hadn't happened to you." Neria shuddered a deep breath in his arms before stepping back, forcing Daylen to release her from his embrace

"We still have to help him. He is our friend," added Neria in a small voice. Daylen nodded and followed Neria to the stockroom. He, himself, had doubts about Jowan's innocence. He didm;t like the Circle, and believed the Templars would make them all Tranquil if they could, but he could;t quite believe that First-Enchanter Irving would sign the Rite over the whispered gossip of jealous apprentices. There had to be proof for Irving to agree to something so awful. He remained silent while Neria procured a form from Owain, shuddering at the thought of Jowan talking in that same monotonous, unfeeling voice.

"We need a Senior Enchanter to sign the form," sighed Neria as she rolled up the parchment, stuffing into her belt. "I-I don't think they'd give it to," she added, sheepishly and Daylen forced himself to chuckle. No, they wouldn't. He was surprised they had allowed him to take his own Harrowing, with how much they disapproved of his wild, anti-Circle ways.

"I'll let you get the required signature yourself, then," smiled Daylen as he thought on something he could do with his own form. Perhaps he should ask Irving about all of this.


	2. The Price of Freedom

**The Price of Freedom**

_A bonus chapter for the two lovely people who actually favourited this story, bad spelling, grammar and all._

_I never liked Jowan...just saying. Daylen understands my dislike completely._

* * *

Once Neria was out of sight, Daylen made his way to the First-Enchanter's study, knocking on the door quietly. The door opened of its own accord and Irving looked surprised as Daylen stepped in.

"What can I do for you, Amell?"

"I had a question, First-Enchanter."

"Manners? I never thought I'd see the day," chuckled Irving, but all mirth left his face as he contemplated Daylen's stoicism. "Ask away, Amell."

"It's about Jowan, ser. Do you really mean to turn him Tranquil?" Irving sighed, shoulders slumped as he fell into his chair, face grim.

"Yes. Did his Initiate tell him about the Rite?" Irving chuckled darkly at the flash of surprise that crossed Daylen's face before he school it back into it's usual mask when dealing with authority figures. "You would be surprised at what I know, Amell. Even a few, though perhaps not all, of your own secret affairs."

"Why? Why would you let the Templars make him Tranquil?" Daylen didn't want to believe Jowan was a blood mage. He hadn't wanted to believe that Irving had really signed the Rite of Tranquility. It was too much.

"He was seen, Amell," answered Irving softly, empathy in his voice. "I know you are close to him, you have been since nearly day one in the tower, but he was seen using blood magic. I…I cannot allow a blood mage to take the Harrowing. The results could be disastrous. You know this."

Daylen seemed to crumpled before Irving's soft, caring words and the First-Enchanter gestured for the mage to take a seat, pouring him a cup of warm tea. He apologised again as Daylen sipped at the hot, bitter brew, bidding himself not to cry and wondering how he could tell Neria this second piece of devastating news. He shouldn't lie to her, not again, but how could he tell her their friend, the very man who broke her heart, had been a blood mage all along.

"He wants us to help him escape," muttered Daylen angrily. He knew just what Neria would think about letting a blood mage escape. SHe hated blood magic more than anything, a perverted practice, so completely at contrast to her own tethering to the Fade.

"Ah, I had not thought him so bold," mused Irving and Daylen started, looking up and realising he had spoken allowed and that the First-Enchanter had heard him. "I assume he thinks to destroy his phylactery, no doubt with his lady's help. She would know more about the Repository than he."

"You let Lily find the Rite, didn't you?" Irving nodded. "Why?"

"She deserved to know what she had gotten involved with, but to think she would try and help him escape. No. I can't allow this. If I go to the Templars nothing will change, and Lily will never be punished for her crime. I will not allow the Chantry to shield it's Initiate while my apprentice suffers," growled Irving with surprising vehemence. He cast a measuring glance over Daylen, seemingly coming to a decision. "Help them, you and Neria - I assume she has been involved as well?" At Daylen's nod the First-Enchanter continued.

"Do what they ask, then, at the least we will be able to extract justice from the Chantry for Lily's crimes, too."

"I need a signature for a rod of fire. They seem to think it will melt the lock to the Repository," added Daylen and Irving shook his head at so feeble a plan.

"It won't work, but very well." Irving reached into his desk and pulled out a request form, filling it in and signing it for Daylen. Daylen hesitated as he reached for the parchment, however.

"If we do this, will Neria and I be safe? I can't save Jowan, not from his own stupidity, but I can at least protect myself and Neria from it." Irving nodded in understanding, his eyes strangely sympathetic to the internal war that battled within the dark human mage's mind.

"I promise that I will vouch for you both against Greagoir. You will be safe from his wrath in this regard." Daylen nodded solemnly and took the request form gingerly, hoping that Neria wouldn't hate him for what he had done. He hoped he could at least protect her from this bout of Jowan-related fuckery.

As he handed the form in to Owain, Daylen felt overcome with his own rage at Jowan, at his selfishness and carelessness. That he would do something as foolish as blood magic while in the Circle, and that he would involve Neria in this, too. Did he truly care so little for his supposed friends that he would throw them under the Templars in such a fashion? Daylen no longer felt guilty about what he did with the rage coursing through his veins. This was Jowan's own stupidity as usual, and the fool would hurt Neria with it.

"You already got a rod of fire?" Neria's voice was incredulous as she saw Daylen leaving the stockroom. "How? No one would sign for me and I'm _trustworthy_." _And I am decidedly not, not when you're going to put in danger, Neri_, but Daylen kept his angry thoughts to himself.

"I made up a story about using it to perfect channelling my own fire, so I could command a smaller amount of it instead of turning everything into an uncontrollable firestorm. The story was bought, it seems," shrugged Daylen, putting on an air of nonchalance and Neria giggled, smiling up at him all innocence and naivety. It made his stomach pang that he couldn't tell her the truth. She was too honest, too loving and too trusting to play the deception, if she would even agree to it in the first place. No, better to keep it from her; just one last secret.

Daylen and Neria burst into the Chantry to a worried Jowan being calmed and comforted by Lily. The sight of them brought back Neria's iciness, her hand cold on Daylen's arm. Jowan caught sight of them, wringing his hands nervously again.

"I hate waiting…it make me nervous," he spluttered, eyes darting around the room like frightened birds.

"We have the rod," replied Neria coolly, narrowing her eyes as Lily beamed, clapping her hands. Neria averted her eyes as she hugged Jowan, not wanting to see their affection paraded out in front of her.

"Freedom awaits," declared Lily, breathlessly and Daylen couldn't stop himself from hating the foolish woman. Not just for the pain her very existence brought the elf who clung to his arm with frost covered hands, but for her own blindness and stupid belief that magic could get them into a place that was created to keep mages out. The Chantry and Jowan had something in common: foolishness only attracted fools.

At this late hour the tower was all, but deserted as the four of them made their quiet and separate ways down to the Repository. Neria went first, sitting down at the library beside the basement door by herself, pretending to be engrossed in some historic story about a long dead Orlesian Emperor. Daylen and Jowan eventually joined her, laughing and joking with one another as if neither had a care in the world, and as if Daylen didn't want to blast the other mage's head off. Lily, however, waited for them in the basement as the three mages snuck out of the library and now into the depths of the tower.

Lily smiled and reached for Jowan's hands as they approached. Neither Daylen nor Neria made any move as they politely ignored the affection between Jowan and Lily. She finally turned from Jowan to regard the door, sighing as she ran her hand over it.

"They call this the Victim's Door," said Lily as she ran her soft, perfumed hands over the rough wood. "There are two hundred and seventy-seven planks - one for each of the original Templars. A reminder of the dangers of-"

"Perhaps we should get on with it instead of having a history lesson," snapped Daylen and Lily looked back at him as if stung, making Jowan glare at his friend. "We don't have all night, and I would rather not get executed for helping you."

"Daylen, don't-"

"Your friend is right, Jowan. We are dawdling." Lily turned to the door and murmured what sounded like a prayer and all three mages turned their attention to the door as they heard tumblers clicking into place. She looked back up at them with her soft watery eyes. "To unlock it needs the touch of mana, any spell-"

Before the words had finished tumbling out of Lily's mouth a shard of ice struck the door and both men turned wary eyes on Neria where she stood, her face a mask of indifference. It pained Daylen to see her usual lightness gone as Lily smiled and opened the door. He took Neria's hand quickly as they followed the couple into the Repository, giving her a warm, gentle squeeze of reassurance and the elven girl smiled at her friend, some of her usual warmth thawing the ice in her eyes.

"It'll be over soon," she smiled, half-heartedly as she went in ahead of Daylen.

Unsurprisingly to Daylen the rod of fire was entirely useless. Neria didn't look too surprised either, but Jowan was working himself into quite the tiff over the failure.

"Something's not right…I…I can't cast…I."

"Obviously," snapped Neria. "Magic is hardly going work on the door to the phylacteries. We just need to find a way around." Jowan just blinked at Neria in stunned silence as she stormed off down a corridor, looking for a way around. Daylen hid a proud smile as he followed her, hoping Jowan could see just what he had ruined with his foolishness.

Neria had stopped, her eyes narrowed as she looked down the corridor. Daylen looked down at her questioningly, feeling something brush over his skin.

"The Veil is thin here," warned Neria, her own hands glowing with mana. Her voice didn't sound entirely her own, as if something else touched her from the Fade and Daylen hid his shudder at the thought of Neria's Spirit of Duty being close enough to touch him. He never liked the Fade, any part of it, good or ill. At her words, however, suits of Templar armour moved, arming themselves like fell creatures of legend. Neria's ice chilled the corridor as Daylen threw flame and lightning at the possessed suits of armour, Jowan doing nothing to aid them as he stood protectively over Lily. Daylen growled in annoyance at Jowan, but he and Neria made easy work of the Fade warriors.

"This way." No one thought to question Neria as she led them further down the corridor and into some storeroom that made Daylen's hair stand on end. He found her standing in front of a statue of a beautiful woman, her eyes strangely intent.

"Neri?" She shook her head looking up at Daylen's worried golden brown eyes.

"I'm sorry, but what happened to her is so sad," whispered Neria as she looked up at the statue again mournfully before moving away. Daylen looked up at the statue cautiously, feeling that same odd feather light touch of the thinned Veil and moved quickly away from the stone woman.

"This one, however, doesn't speak," smiled Neria as she put her hand on the head of a Mabari statue, eyes dancing as she grinned at Daylen. As Jowan followed them in, holding onto Lily's hand and Neria's smile died with his arrival, remembering why they were there.

"I think the phylactery chamber is behind this bookcase," surmised Jowan as he passed both of his friends to run his hands over the wood. "Help me move it, Daylen." The other man sighed, wishing they could just blast the damned bookcase out of the way, but he knew Neria would scold him heavily for destroying precious _books_. Maker, but the elf liked to read.

With some grunting and swearing, and what felt like absolutely no help on Jowan's part, he and Daylen pushed the bookcase out of the way and Neria took the rod of fire from Daylen's hand.

"I think this is an amplifier," she stated with a casual shrug. "If anything could get through the wall it would be this." Nothing else left to say the mage aimed the rod at the Mabari statue and activated the controls, blasting a small contained fire at the statue. Instead of singing the rock, however, the dog's eyes grew red and a far more powerful and impressive flame flew out of its mouth. Daylen felt somewhat envious that he couldn't take the statue with him. Something like that would cause all manner of fun and mischief in the Circle.

The wall collapsed under the onslaught and they walked into the small room lined with vials of crimson blood. Inside was another of those Fade-driven sentinels that Daylen and Neria teamed up to dispatch, turning it into nothing more than a molten puddle of steel. Looking up at the phylacteries the four of them divided the room up, looking over the labels written in the neat, tiny print of Irving's own hand.

"Ah…Jowan? called Neria, holding up a vial that was sitting on an altar, ready to be used in his Rite of Tranquility, no doubt. Jowan beamed a bright smile at Neria as he took the vial from her hand. His name was written in neat print on the label: Jowan Targen, Human, Male.

"Thank you, Neri, you found it." He looked at it, almost in awe as he held the blood gingerly in his hands. "So much power," he whispered, disconcertingly, making the hair on the back of Daylen's neck stand on end. "So easy just to be rid of it, to break its hold on me."

He dropped the vial and they watched as the blood splattered on impact, staining the rug and painting the white stones crimson with it. The look of relief on Jowan's face made even Neria smile as he looked over at them all, the first easy, calm smile on his face Neria or Daylen had seen since they had all been children.

"I'm free."

Lily grinned and threw herself at Jowan, wrapping her arms around him as she kissed him deeply. The sight made Neria's stomach flip over and she looked away, feeling Daylen's hands on her arms, stroking calm and warmth into her. She smiled up at him in thanks.

"We should go now," she said, her eyes grateful as she pulled away.

The trip back to the first door was uneventful, but Daylen couldn't shake that strange sense that something watched them down there. Those feather light tingles across his arm that made him shiver, but that seemed to make Neria lighter, her smile peaceful as she looked back over the creepy, haunted corridor. To Daylen it almost looked like she was saying farewell and he shivered involuntarily. Yes, very creepy.

Neria and Daylen nearly bumped into Lily and Jowan at the top of the stairs and the pair of them looked ahead at what stopped them.

"An Initiate conspiring with a blood mage," growled Greagoir in his disappointed, gravelly tones. He grabbed Lily's face, inspecting her wide eyes before he let her go. "She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind," he observed, eyes turning to Irving. "Not a thrall of blood magic as you told me, Irving. She has betrayed us."

"And these two," growled Greagoir on sight of Neria and Daylen. Daylen quickly stepped in front of Neria. He knew if Irving stood up for him that he didn't want to see the hurt in her eyes; not for the second time today. "Newly mages and already flouting the laws upon this world is built!"

"They are here on my command," interjected the First-Enchanter quietly and three pairs of shocked, disbelieving eyes turned on Daylen.

"Daylen," hissed Neria from behind him, but he refused to turn and see the hurt in those clear blue eyes. Jowan's dark eyes were easier to meet.

"You led us into a trap!" accused Jowan, his hurt quickly turning to anger and Daylen stared the other mage down.

"You did this to yourself and then, you selfishly dragged myself and Neri into it without thinking about the consequences it would have on us. I won't let your selfish foolishness hurt her again," snapped Daylen, cold and hard and just as dangerous as Neria's icy tones.

"Take the Initiate to Aeonar," commanded Greagoir, unfazed by the mage drama unfolding before him. "Kill the blood mage." As the Templars approached Lily she began to blubber, dropping to her knees to beg Greagoir for mercy, for forgiveness. Jowan stepped in front of Lily, his face set and determined as he pulled a knife from his belt, pressing the blade against the sensitive flesh of his palm and with a deep breath he pulled the blade against his skin. Blood splattered the stone and Neria dropped to her knees as a sense of overwhelming wrongness overcame her, her sensitivities to the Fade making her nauseous as she collapsed on the stones as Jowan began to wield his blood.

"Neria." Daylen's voice was laden with worry, but Neria could barely hear him. Her head throbbed and her stomach roiled and she threw up over the stones while he held her.

"Blood magic," she whispered before she finally passed out, Daylen catching her head before she hit the stones. He looked up at Jowan in rage, pushing out the barriers of his magic to shield both himself and Neria from his crazed blood magic. With a blast that knocked the Templars and Irving clean out, Jowan turned to Lily who could only stare at the dark haired mage in horror.

"By the Maker….you said you never….."

"I'll give it up, please, Lily. Just come with me." He reached for her hand, but Lily screamed, tearing her hand free of his bloody grip.

"Stay away from me!" screamed Lily, falling in her attempts to move as far away from Jowan as possible. Daylen found a hateful, unforgiving part of himself enjoyed the look of utter despair that fell over Jowan's face as his heart shattered before Daylen's eyes. He deserved nothing less for his crimes. Daylen wasn't sure which crime he held in higher loathing; the blood magic, or using and hurting Neria. With one last look at Daylen, holding Neria's head behind his shield Jowan ran.

"Dayle," murmured Neria, her eyes fluttered and her voice weak. Her face was drained of what little colour she had. "Jowan was…" Daylen hushed her, running his fingers through her hair soothingly.

"I know, Neri, I know. I'm sorry."

"He was…._wrong_." Movement caught Daylen's eyes and he saw Irving stirring. Neria looked up, sitting up despite Daylen's protests. "I have to help heal them, Dayle."

Neria was weak, put Daylen helped move her over to the injured Templars and First-Enchanter. Daylen felt that strange feather-light touch of the Fade again as she bent over Irving first, her hands humming with the white light of healing. The older mage stirred, opening his eyes groggily. Neria turned unspeaking to attend to the Knight-Commander.

"Amell," croaked Irving as Daylen held out a hand to help the older man to his feet. "Are you alright?"

"I knew it," growled Greagoir as he rose of his own volition, slapping Daylen's hand out of his way. "Blood magic, but to overcome so many." Greagoir looked around at his injured Templars, the glow of Neria's healing hands sewing their torn flesh and he shook his head. "I never thought he could wield such power."

"He lied to me," whispered Neria, closing her eyes against rebellious tears, biting down on her quivering lower lip as she turned away, tending to another injured Templar. Daylen's chest hurt at the sound of pain and betrayal in her weak, shaking voice.

"Neri…"

"None of us expected this," hushed Irving, his voice gentle and understanding as always."Are you alright, Greagoir?"

"As good as can be expected," snapped Greagoir gruffly. "If you had let me act sooner this would never have happened and now we have a blood mage on the loose with no way to track him down! Where is the girl?"

"I-I am here," squeaked Lily from where she had fallen. She stood shakily.

"You helped a blood mage!" roared Greagoir, his finger pointed at her accusingly. "Look at all he's hurt!" Her wide, fearful eyes took in the scene before her and she looked down at the stones beneath her feet in shame.

"She didn't know Jowan was a blood mage," defended Neria, standing from the final healed Templar and Daylen rushed to her side as she wobbled, her legs threatening to give way beneath her.

"Knight-Commander…" Lily looked past the Knight-Commander, shaking her head in a small gesture to Daylen and Neria. "I-I was wrong. I helped a blood mage. I accept whatever punishment you see fit." At a wave of his hand two Templars took Lily's arms and escorted her away. The Knight-Commander turned on Daylen and Neria, his anger still not abated.

"And you! You were in a Repository of magic's that were locked away for a reason. Your antics have made a mockery of this Circle!" Irving stepped between the Knight-Commander and the two mages defiantly.

"As I said, they were working under my orders." The Knight-Commander puffed like a rooster at the First-Enchanter's defiance.

"And this improves things?" he bellowed. "The phylactery chamber is locked against anyone bar you and me!"

"I had my reasons," argued Irving, his usually calm voice wavering with a slow burning anger of his own and Daylen and Neria exchanged shocked glances. Neither had ever really seen Irving angry before.

"You are not all-knowing, Irving. These two were friends of the blood mage, who knows how much influence he had on them," he added, turning his predatory gaze on the pair of them. "How are we to deal with this?"

"Knight-Commander," called an even tempered voice, a deep baritone that carried through the room as everyone turned to see the Warden-Commander watching them all with a measured look on his face. "If I may, I am not here looking for mages to join the King's army, as you well know, but to find capable potential Warden recruits. I had already intended to recruit these two on Irving's word alone, but if it saves you the discomfit of deciding their fates, I am even more glad to accept them into our ranks."

"What? You promised him Wardens?" roared the Knight-Commander, feeling his control slipping.

"They are strong and powerful magi, Greagoir. They would make excellent Grey Wardens," growled Irving, his voice edging into dangerous territory. That slow, cool anger of his was somehow more frightening than Greagoir's usually fiery outbursts. The latter had been seen many times by Daylen and Neria and they were all but inured to it.

"I object," growled the Knight-Commander, gesturing wildly. "I do not trust them. I will not release them to the Wardens."

"Worst things plague this world than blood mages, Knight-Commander. If I have to use the Rite of Conscription, I will," threatened Duncan and Neria gripped Daylen's arm almost painfully tight.

Could it be try? Could they really leave the Circle to join the Wardens? Could they really be that lucky after such a day as this? Surely the Maker is playing them for fools and the Warden-Commander will leave them here either to be killed by the Templars or made Tranquil in place of Jowan. Neria didn't dare to hope.

"Fine!" Geagoir threw his hands in the air in exasperation and Neria felt the air grow lighter as she swayed in Daylen's arms. "But get them out of my tower now! I will not suffer their presence here any longer!" The Knight-Commander stormed off as Duncan bowed respectfully o the departing Templar and Neria felt the tears she had held back stream down her face in relief.

"We…we are to leave?" she managed and Irving turned to the young mages, a proud smile on his face as he wrapped his arms around both of them.

"You two have a rare opportunity before you. Not many get to see more of this world than these stone walls. I trust you both to make the most of this chance," smiled Irving and Daylen nodded grimly while Neria just laughed through her tears, almost mad with relief.

"Thank you, Irving," was all Daylen managed as he held Neria on her feet.

"We must go now, as the Knight-Commander bids. We can rest at an inn across the lake," added Duncan, looking pointedly at Neria's frail condition. He gestured for them both to follow him and daylen quickly wrapped his arms around his small elven friend.

"Come on, Neri," he whispered into her hair. "Time for us to go soak up some of that fresh Ferelden freedom, yeah?" Neria just beamed up at him as he released her, helping her stagger her way out the tower.

* * *

Moonlight glittered over Lake Calenhad and both Neria and Daylen sat together, her head on his shoulder, and his arm wrapped around hers as they stared out over the seemingly unending vastness of the water. Duncan watched them both quietly, letting them enjoy their first tastes of freedom. He had felt much the same when the Wardens had pardoned him on the Gallows so many years ago, and he would not disturb this moment for them.

Music and firelight wafted over the dark silky waters and Neria smiled as they disembarked, still leaning on Daylen as the pair staggered up a small hill toward a tavern. The Spoiled Princess was painted in old, peeling letters on the door that Duncan held open for the two mages. Laughter, shouting, music and the stench of drunkards, ale and vomit assaulted Neria and Daylen, along with the brightness of a heart fire and near a hundred tapered candles warming up the small space against the chill of autumn.

A grouchy looking dwarven woman waylaid Duncan, hands on hips as she glared up at Duncan, unintimidated by his looming height.

"Can I help you, messere?" grouched the woman and Duncan nodded gravely at the woman, pulling free a few coins from a pouch at his belt. Neither Daylen nor Neria had ever seen money before, let alone used the currency. The idea worried at Neria. There were many things about a life outside the Circle she and Daylen would need to learn.


	3. Dust Beneath the Stone

**Dust Beneath The Stone**

_Male characters...well, ones that aren't Daylen, are so hard to write for.I should have made the other Wardens all women. I'd have found it easier, and Daylen would have been ecstatic. Anyway...I only own the thoughts Bioware's characters have...those are mine, I guess._

* * *

Rica pulled a brush through her long coppery hair, humming some dancing tune under her breath that distracted Faren from the impatient tapping of his fingers as he watched the door, body tense and waiting. Beraht was always late. The man enjoyed stringing them along, tugging at their anxieties and pushing at their fears.

"Why do you let him treat you the way he does?" asked Faren, his voice breaking through Rica's hummed tune. She stopped, her wide topaz eyes looking over at his brother, making him sigh in regret over his harsh tone. Faren stood from his chair, moving over to his older, taking the brush from her hand and carefully pulling it through her long silken tresses.

"It doesn't matter how he treats me, Ren," sighed Rica as she leant against his tender ministrations. "Not in the grand scheme of things. If anything it gives me more motivation to find a noble patron. If I do that, then he can never touch me again. If I don't…well, I won't go back to the middens, Ren. I won't."

Faren felt his hand tighten on the handle of the brush in a flash of anger about the thought of Beraht and what Rica would do to keep out of the middens. There were plenty of prostitutes on the streets of Dust Town; just another way to survive in this shit-hole. It wasn't a future he wanted for his sister; the only person in his life who didn't use him for her own ends.

"Why can't he just be happy with the work I do? Why did he have to bring you into it?" Faren half-sighed and half-growled. He'd been working with the Carta for nearly twelve years, ever since he was a boy. It hadn't been until last year that Beraht took any notice of one of his lowly thieves, or rather the pretty older sister of one, and most days Faren wished his sister had remained under Beraht's radar.

The door swung open, making their mother murmur something in her drunken stupor before she turned her head and continued snoring. Beraht stormed into the hovel, nose wrinkled in disgust as he beheld his charges. Rica was the first to move, smiling graciously as she offered a chair to Beraht like a generous hostess, all smiles and wide blue eyes. The man merely grunted in thanks as he took the chair and Faren leant up against the wall, arms crossed as Rica took the only other available chair.

The room was silent for sometime and Faren fought the urge to speak or rap his fingers over the boiled leather of his vambraces as he watched Beraht with his arms crossed. Beraht merely pulled out a pipe from his belt, unhurried and measured out some tobacco from a pouch, striking a match to light up the dark, stinking herb. Inhaling the smoke deeply he relaxed back into his chair, eyeing Rita like a prized Bronto steak at the butcher's stall.

"I can't keep gambling on you forever, precious," drawled Beraht. His very voice boiling Faren's blood, let alone the way the man's eyes roved over his sister. "You've got a sweet look, something that'll light a man on fire, but you gotta make it count."

"Please," smiled Rica, keeping the panic out of her voice with trained practice. "Beraht, I don't want to do this in front of my brother." She waved a deceivingly nonchalant hand in Faren's direction and the thief kept his thoughts behind his usual indifferent mask. Beraht merely laughed darkly.

"Why not? He knows the slope of the land, don't you, boy?" Beraht's voice was drenched in threat, but Faren didn't let his simmering anger and disgust show on his face. Faren just shrugged in response, not wanting to give the twisted man the satisfaction of a reply. Beraht narrowed his eyes at the thief. "You know, before me, your sister was just another Duster, now check her out; braids down to here, gold capped teeth. She can recite elf poetry and play the string harp. Every man's wet dream. All she's got to do is find a lord, squeeze out a son that looks like him and we're all living the high life in the Diamond Quarter."

Faren didn't trust himself to look at Rica, no doubt her cheeks were bright with embarrassment. Instead he kept his cool, level gaze directly on Beraht's bare bearded face, the Casteless mark on his own feeling almost hot beneath Beraht's dark glare.

"So long as you both eat of my plate, you'd do best to know your place, Dusters," warned Beraht, but Faren was too busy imagining the many ways he could kill the man in this very room without even unsheathing his daggers.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" asked Faren coldly, making the other man narrow his eyes.

"I'm checking on my investments," explained Beraht, gesturing at Faren and Rica. "And right now they aren't bearing much gold. I give you another week, precious. If you haven't found another patron you can go back to the midden heap for all I care."

"Oh, but I have," promised Rica, with her wide amber eyes, smiling coyly at Beraht as she rose from her chair gracefully. "That is…I didn't want to promise, but I think he is inclined." Beraht harrumphed, shooting a dark eyes at Faren.

"Why are you still here, boy? Get out. Leske has a job for you both," dismissed Beraht. Faren was too used to being dismissed from his own shitty hovel to care, and he tried not to think about that disgusting prig's hands on his sister, bringing up his usual mental walls. No point thinking about unpleasant things. Rica could take care of herself.

"Go fuck yourself, you lazy, no good, nug-humping layabout," grumbled their mother by way of farewell and Faren slammed the door behind him. In front of the hovel was a small fire, kept lit by the unluckier Dusters who gathered nearby to keep warm. Leske saw him from the other side, smiling as he turned away from some cheap harlot barely wearing more than her small clothes and making his way toward Faren.

"About sodding time, Brosca. I was starting to think I'd have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours," grinned Leske, his black eyes darting pass Faren to the door of the hovel.

"Go ahead, but don't blame me if you poke your own eyes out with a hot blade when you see Beraht's hairy ass, too." Leske grimace like he's been punched in the gut.

"There are places the mind just shouldn't go, Brosca." Leske shook the thought from his mind. "As much as I'd like to stand around and chat I like my balls where they are - not on Jarvia's sodding mantelpiece for one. We got work to do."

Faren shrugged, moving on ahead of Leske, making his way toward the Commons as Leske jogged to catch up with him.

"One of the smugglers is holding out on Beraht, and we both know how much he loves that. Anyway, to the tavern, knock the nugshit around and get his money back and maybe, just maybe he won't kill us," shrugged Leske.

"I do feel like hitting something. Maybe we should shake a little more coin from the sod and get some drinks in. I could use a drink as much as I could use a fight, and I don't think some smugglers gonna give me enough fight."

"Beraht always puts you in the sunniest mood, Brosca," chortled Leske. Brosca smiled at his companion. He wasn't really a friend per say. Dust Town didn't really have the luxury of friendship, but he liked Leske well enough. He wasn't Rica, though. Rica was the only person important to Brosca's life.

The Commons were bustling with activity as always, and Faren's Casteless marking drew indignant and disgusted eyes from all the pompous caste-y dwarves. Faren had perfected his hardened insolent glare and used it happily against those stares.

"I can't believe the guard would let _those_ walk around with the Grey Warden in Orzammar."

"No honour having _that_ around where the human can see."

"I feel like we're causing quite the sensation," chortled Leske darkly. Brosca grunted in reply.

Grey Wardens meant nothing in Dust Town. Faren knew what they were, some _honoured_ warrior-caste from the surface who spent their life fighting the darkspawn for no sodding good reason than they wanted to. In the day to day struggle to survive, the fight to keep yourself safe, of the Dusters, the great deeds of some surfacers who wanted to die deep in the tunnels meant nothing. It couldn't buy you bread or nug-on-a-stick.

The tavern smelt like home; violence, anger, vomit, stale ale and drowned sorrows. It made Faren smile as he stepped through the door, stomp the dust off his boots all over their precious dust-free doormat. He ignored the glares of the drunken commoners and found his smuggler, watching him with wide, fearful eyes, trying not to meet his glare. It only made Faren grin wider.

He strolled over to the table and sat himself down across from the smuggler, smiling at the man.

"Oskias," smiled Leske as he sat down beside the surfacer, clapping him on the back and gesturing to the barmaid for two more ales. "Beraht will be so glad to hear you're alright. He's been so worried about your wellbeing, Ossie."

"How have you been, Oskias?" grinned Faren as he pulls out his dagger, sitting back on the chair, seemingly relaxed as he cleaned his nails with the point of the blade. The surfacer was trying his damnedest not to visibly hyperventilate, but Faren could taste the man's panic in the stale tavern air.

"G-Good," squeaked out the man, his voice rising an octave. 'I-I just got here this morning."

"Of course, you did," smiled Leske and Faren grinned as the ale came to the table, smiling into the mug.

"So you're not the turncoat, two-faced, swindling Duster Beraht told us about," added Leske, menacingly. The man looked like he was about to squeeze a nut out right there.

"I-I never did anything, I swear. I-I-"

"Look, Oskias," started Faren, after draining his mug dry in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "If you didn't do anything, _we_ wouldn't be here. Did you really think you could double-cross Beraht and he wouldn't find out about it? Or were you hoping for a visit from Jarvia?" At the mention of Beraht's notorious right-hand Oskias' eyes somehow went even wider and he fidgeted in his seat nervously.

"No-No, I…I know my loyalty to Beraht. He's been good to my family."

"Then, you wouldn't mind if Leske takes your coin and your family misses out on a house call?"

"Look…I…I do have some lyrium, just ore. I was going to sell it to one of the mining castes, but I was going to give Beraht his cut. I swear, I was," panicked Oskias.

"How much?"

"Not much, just…maybe, twenty-five sovereigns worth." Leske spat out his ale at the number.

"Twenty-five sovereigns?" Leske couldn't even do that math in his head, and neither could Feran, to tell the truth. There just wasn't enough room in his mind for calculating how many meals that was. It was an obscene amount of coin.

"I..I could give you a bit…i-if you don't tell Beraht about this," pleaded Oskias. Faren snorted.

"I'll pass. You might not have personally met Jarvia, surfacer, but I have. No thanks," waved off Faren with a dark smile. "Just pay up and start a tab for Leske and me here, and we'll let you live, yeah?"

"I…Yes," agreed Oskias with a sigh, handing Leske the coin. Faren waved him off, careful to watch him to make sure he put down some good coin at the bar for them. Faren smiled and winked at Leske, who chuckled darkly.

"Not even a good fight outta this," grumbled Faren as he took another ale off the barmaid, quenching at least one of his thirsts.

"There's got to be more than just fighting and drinking," laughed Leske. Faren squinted questioningly at Leske. The other dwarf merely looked at him smugly as he took a heavy gulp of ale.

"Sod it, like what?"

"Wenching," winked Leske and Faren chuckled.

"I'll still want a fight first," laughed Faren as he gestured for another ale, draining his mug with practiced ease.

"Enter the sodding Proving if a fight's all you want," poked Leske, rolling his eyes,

The two finally drank Oskias' tab dry and decided to make their way to Beraht's shop, feeling better for the ale. Neither men bothered knocking, walking in to see Beraht with Jarvia, talking politics that just made Faren's nose twitch. Politics belonged in the sodding Diamond Quarter.

"Oh, so you didn't die at the hands of the surfacer," growled Beraht as he saw Faren and Leske. "Took you long enough." Faren shrugged, dropping his gold on the counter. Beraht grunted as he weighed the pouch in his hand. He won't really a man big on verbal compliments. Not getting Jarvia's knife in the throat was considered compliment enough.

"I have something else for you two. There is a Proving today; all the best fighters, last man standing, you know the sort of thing," shrugged Beraht dismissively. No one outside the warrior and noble-castes actually gave two swings of a Bronto's prig about Provings. It was all just an excuse for the rest of Orzammar to get drunk, watch someone else bleed out and bet on the outcome. "They just want to show off for some Grey Warden who can drag them off to a life of eternal glory. Now, I have certain…acquaintances who take an interest in this sort of thing. There's a lot of coin to be made when people get the fever up. Favoured fighter is some warrior named Mainar, Everd's a long shot who just got back from Deep Road's expedition. Some young buck who's got all the ladies drooling, but I've got a lot money riding on him, mine and other people's. I expect to see that eight to one pay."

Fixing Provings, how sodding original, thought Faren, trying not to show his boredom on his face. He left a tavern ripe with unsought fights and unsatisfied women for this? Waste of a perfectly good afternoon in Faren's opinion.

It got pretty dull and predictable in Faren's opinion and he let his mind wander. Leske would pay attention to the details. He didn't have a pretty noble hunter for a sister, after all. Instead, Faren was wondering what the warrior-castes would do if he got his hands on some bright surfacer paint, maybe pink, and redecorated all their armour. Would they fight with the pink hearts all over their precious armour? Or would they all refuse to fight, putting the Proving off and making all of Orzammar descend into chaos? Either way it sounded like an enjoyable show, preferably with ale.

"Don't mess this up." Beraht's gravelly, and boringly threatening tone brought Faren back from his daydreams as Leske shot a worried look at his partner. Faren merely shrugged, taking the bottle of what was no doubt poison from Beraht and making his exit.

"You didn't listen to a sodding word of that, did you?" accused Leske and Faren smirked.

"I listen to a word or two here and there. None of it seemed overly important. The windbag is just practising overly long speeches for his long dreamt of future in the Diamond Quarter. Make sure Everd wins his sodding fights, poison the favourite, profit. Not really a lot of steps to the plan. It hardly needed an Assembly speech." Leske chuckled at that as the two dwarves made their way to the Proving Grounds. At least the ale at the Provings was always good, better than the dragon's piss served at Tapster's.


	4. The Throne Beneath the Earth

**The Throne Beneath The Earth**

_See, women are easier. I like Sereda. I feel bad for her, but I like her...maybe I should just kill Brosca, unless he becomes less of a pain. Regardless, everything belongs to Bioware. I'm just having fun here_

* * *

Commander Aeducan Sereda fidgeted in her new armour. It was an ancient set, originally worn by the founder of her house, Paragon Aeducan, himself, when he held the darkspawn at bay, saving this, the last dwarves city of a long dead mighty empire. The royal smiths had recast it to fit her smaller, more curved frame and had done an exceptional job of it in Sereda's opinion. For armour that had never been on a female's body before it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as she had thought it would be.

Traditionally the Aeducan armour, along with the war hammer, went to the first-born son, the future king, so that the Stone might recognise the spirit of his Paragon within and protect him. Or some such nonsense. Sereda was sure it would cause quite the scandal among the noble-castes once she made her appearance at the Proving and the very thought made her head throb. Weren't there more important things to worry about in these ancient tunnels than sodding tradition? Like darkspawn.

"My lady?" called Gorim's all too familiar voice through the door, followed by a light rap of armoured knuckles. Sereda smiled to herself. Why her second bothered knocking at all made no sense. The Stone knew her Second had seen her in far less than armour. Yet he refused to ever breach protocol unless all, but ordered to when Sereda had firmly locked the bedroom door and commanded him out of his armour and into her bed. Not that Gorim ever complained about his treatment.

"Enter," called Sereda as she pulled her unruly fiery curls back into a plait that she twisted into a practical and yet becoming knot at the nape of her neck. It wouldn't do for the king's daughter to be anything less than stunning, even in full plate mail at her own swearing in ceremony. It would probably cause as much as rift as the thrice damned armour itself.

Gorim gasped, making Sereda smile somewhat self-consciously despite herself. She turned her amethyst coloured eyes on her warrior-caste lover and protector.

"I look ridiculous," sighed Sereda, huffing in annoyance as she turned back to the polished silver mirror in her rooms. Gorim moved up behind her, wrapping his strong, armoured arms around her middle and Sereda smiled as she leant back against his deep chest. He pressed his lips tenderly against the side of her neck, just below her ear.

"You look like many things, my lady. Ridiculous isn't even on the list," whispered Gorim, huskily, making Sereda blush.

"It's a Paragon's armour," countered Sereda. "It should be my brother's. The armour of House Aeducan belongs to the first-son, the Heir to the Stone Throne. It doesn't belong to the first-daughter."

"I don't think Trian could pull off the blacksmith's customisations with quite the same elegance, my lady," smiled Gorim as he unwrapped his arms from around Sereda's middle. He stepped back, careful to keep the distance protocol demanded.

"He's going to pissed," pointed out Sereda with a heavy sigh, as she sheathed her claymore to her back. Looking up at Gorim she looked like a Paragon of Strength made mortal and he couldn't keep the image of her round curves hidden beneath that heavy armour out of his mind. "Like I need another reason for Assembly scandal and Trian's knife pointed at my Stone-forsaken back."

"His knife would never get through me, my lady," promised Gorim in hushed passion. Her amethyst eyes sparkled with his determination.

"Let's just get to the damned Provings. The Stone folk were always ones to waste blood for glory," she muttered as the newly appointed Commander as she stalked pass her rather dazed Second with a grace few dwarves could match.

Outside in the hall Sereda's violet eyes caught sight of one of the Grey Warden's mages; a slight elven girl who looked like she'd float away in a strong breeze. She was a dainty eldritch thing who watched her with strange clear, blue eyes. The elf smiled, bowing her head respectfully as Sereda approached the Warden's apartments.

"Ah….good day, Commander Aeducan," smiled the elfling and Sereda grinned at her.

"Thank you."

"I apologise, but what are you thanking me for?" The girl tilted her head like a nut cub being taught tricks. Less pink and hideous, but the image still made Sereda suppress a chuckle.

"For calling me Commander. Most people forget I'm a soldier with all this royal blood flowing in my veins," shrugged Sereda. It frustrated the Commander to no end how the nobles still tripped over the hems of the robes trying to fawn over her. As if a one of them could hold her attention long enough to get her to agree to a marriage contract with such a formidable Second at her side. She needed a warrior, not a simpering noble-caste who would faint at the sight of blood.

"Oh, well, then, you're welcome, Commander," smiled the girl, brightly. "I am Neria, a mage of the Circle. I'm one of Duncan's recruits, along with my friend, Daylen."

"A mage?" Mages were a fascination to the dwarva, something out of children's stories. Sereda couldn't quite believe that something as fragile and wispy as this pretty little elf could actually command the elements.

"I heard my name!" came a voice from inside the quarters and the door opened to a tall, broad shoulder man in a…well, by the buggery of the Ancestors, he was wearing a _dress_. "Are you talking about me, Neri? To beautiful dwarven Princess-Commanders? Good things, I hope." The man was handsome for a human and he grinned down at Sereda slyly. She could actually feel Gorim bristle behind her as she chuckled at the man's word.

"Commander Aeducan, ser," introduced Sereda with a flourished bow.

"Daylen Amell, a pleasure," smiled the mage as he took her hand and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. "Never did I think Orzammar hid such beauty beneath the earth."

"I thought you were a mage, not a courtier, Amell," bantered Sereda good-heartedly.

"Oh, I am both flatter and mage, my dear Commander. My family do originally come from Kirkwall nobility. We were impoverished in Ferelden, but my mother was the Void on manners. You would think bad manners were worse than bloody demons in her house."

"Pity you never learnt any," rebutted Neria with her sweet, honeyed smile.

"You wound me, Neri," gasped Daylen dramatically and Sereda chuckled as she shook her head. Surfacers were odd, and mages odder than anything else the surface had brought down to Orzammar.

"Are you off to the Provings, Commander?" asked Neria, flicking her hand at Daylen's antics.

"Yes, in fact I am. Are you coming along?" The mages exchanged a glance and Daylen shrugged.

"I believe Duncan is with the King, so I guess he'll be at the Provings, too. We may as well meet him there. I am excited to see one of these Provings with my own eyes, and our new companion, of course," added Neria, hastily.

"Always the scholar, Neri," prodded Daylen with a brotherly smile and Sereda felt a pang of jealousy over their friendship. They were more like siblings than herself with her brothers.

Once, when she had been just a young girl, Trian looked at her like that. Long before the politics of the Assembly soured their relationship, they had been close. He had wiped away her tears when she scraped a knee, held her close when they committed their mother to the Stone after Bhelen's terrible birth. She hadn't even had something close to that with her younger brother, as much as she had once wanted it. Bhelen had seemingly been born a schemer, and played the game better than their brother and more often than Sereda had ever wished to.

"Myself and my Second can escort you, Warden-Recruits," offered Sereda and the little elf grinned, ear to ear. It was a sweet innocent smile Sereda had't seen on her own face since childhood.

"Oh, thank you very much, Commander," clapped Neria. "We would have got ourselves lost on our own. These tunnels are so confusing. I wish I had brought a map from the tower." There was a sadness in her voice that pulled at Sereda's heart, but the other mage placed his hands on the girl's arms, rubbing them with such tenderness, making the elf smile up at him. The mages fell in beside Sereda and she knew Gorim watched them closely. Warden-Recruits or not her Second wasn't about to trust anyone, but himself around his Lady Aeducan.

"Do you know much of Orzammar?" asked Sereda, falling back on her court training to make small talk with the surfacers. Neria seemed quite knowledgable of Orzammar and the Shaperite, surprising for a surfacer. Daylen seemed to know more about the Legion of the Dead and the struggles of the dwarva with the darkspawn. Neither seemed to have the familiar hidden meanings behind their words as the noble-castes Sereda had to struggle with daily. It was refreshing not having to watch her words and decipher hidden meanings in theirs and Sereda was almost sorry when they reached the King's box above the Proving Grounds.

The King, her father Endrin, was sitting on his throne, Trian at his right hand and Bhelen standing just behind the ornate chair. Endrin grinned as his daughter arrived, his amethyst eyes sparkling with pride at the sight of her in the Aeducan armour. Sereda didn't miss the flash of loathing and jealousy that crossed her older brother's carefully schooled face.

"My dear daughter," beamed Endrin. "Allow me to introduce you to Warden-Commander Duncan. You have already met his mage recruits, Neria Surana and Daylen Amell, evidently."

"Yes, Your Majesty," bowed Sereda, Gorim following suit behind her. "The recruits needed a guide lest they lose themselves in our tunnels. I would hate for them to take a wrong turn into Dust Town, father." Endrin chortled at that, but Sereda's smile didn't quite meet her violet eyes.

Dust Town was a dangerous, dirty secret of Orzammar that the noble-castes and her father liked to pretend didn't exist. To Sereda, however, the plight of the Casteless was all too real, and she wished her brother would be more amenable to reforms that would allow them the ability to apprentice themselves to a caste. Too many of the castes had useless sods; smiths who didn't know a hammer from their own arse, and warriors who vomited at the sight of darkspawn blood. By the Stone, most of the Legion were formerly Castless and they were the wall that held the darkspawn back from Orzammar while nobles like Trian and his fawning lackeys drank expensive surfacer wine in their bejewelled goblets.

"A pleasure to meet you, Commander Aeducan," bowed Duncan solemnly. "May I pass on my congratulations on your appointment. I hope my dwarves recruit shows the same fierceness as you in battle."

"If there's anything the dwarva have in plenty, Warden-Commander it's lyrium and ferocity," smiled Sereda and the Warden smiled back at her as he recruits took a seat beside him. Sereda took her place, standing at her father's left hand. Looking down at the pit she recognised the House sigils of the two warriors who circled one another. The one wielding the heavy sword and shield was Mainar, a veteran of many Deep Roads campaigns. He was a fierce warrior, one of the best the warrior-caste had ever produced.

"Is that Everd, my lady?" whispered Gorim at her shoulder. She nodded as she recognised the sigil of Lord Villney's house emblazoned on the man's chest. "Strange. I was sure Everd fought with a war hammer, not two daggers." Sereda's amethyst eyes glanced at her Second questioningly before an uproar in the pits drew her attention back to the fight.

Mainar lay in the dirt, knocked clean out, but that wasn't the cause of the uproar. Everd had staggered onto the grounds, drunk and…naked, pointing a finger and shouting at the man that wore his armour. On her right King Endrin stood from his throne, hushing the crowd with his mere presence.

"Who are you, stranger?" demanded her father, his voice carrying over the stadium and ringing with authority. "You are clearly not Everd."

The man pulled off his helmet, throwing the finely crafted steel into the blood spattered dust. He was a dark skinned dwarf, with long curls that tangled to his shoulders and cold black eyes. Below his eye was the brand of the casteless.

"My name is Brosca Faren of the Casteless, Your Majesty," his voice was a deep baritone dripping with dislike, burning like acid that made her father step back.

"A _Casteless_?" gasped King Endrin in disgust, the word sounding like a curse in his mouth. "You bring dishonour to the Proving Grounds with your presence, Duster. You know the penalty for posing as a caste you do not belong to."

Sereda stepped beside her father, placing her hand on his arm.

"Father," interrupted Sereda, her father's ire turning on her. "This man defeated the best of the Warrior-Caste. Brosca is the Champion of the Proving, proving even the lowest of our number can rise to the highest echelons," reasoned Sereda emphatically. She could feel the eyes of those her father favoured with a seat in his royal box turning on her, but she ignored the weight of their stares.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, princess," snarked the man in the pits as the guards grabbed his arms. She looked down at him with hard amethyst eyes. _Foolish man_ swore Sereda, _I am trying to save your Ancestor-forsaken life_

"You overstep yourself, Commander," warned Endrin and Sereda removed her hand quickly as if burned. "Remember your place, daughter. Just as this Casteless should remember his." At a wave of his hands the man was dragged from the pit and Sereda looked down at her boots, pretending to shame in order to hide her anger.

She made no movement as King Endrin pushed pass her, Trian rushing to follow their father, barely hiding his gloating smile. The Warden looked over the dwarven woman with a measuring glance, following her father out the box, his mages in tow. As the royal box emptied Sereda let out a shuddering breath and Gorim put a calming hand on her forearm.

"My lady, I-"

"We will be expected at the feast, Gorim," interrupted Sereda, her noble-caste accent cutting like glass. With that Sereda left the box ahead of him. Bhelen waited for her in the halls, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

"Sister," smiled Bhelen and Sereda found her inner guard rise at that sly, conniving smile of his. She brushed past him, but Bhelen fell into step beside her. "You were right, Sereda. The Casteless proved himself before the Ancestors and the Stone. He was our rightful Champion."

"Our father disagrees, Bhelen. To say anything contrary is treason, brother," replied Sereda, her voice laden with threats under the honeyed sweetness.

"You are too right, sister, of course," nodded Bhelen in an applaudable show of chastisement that his older sister didn't buy for a second. "But I thought to tell you than some of the other nobles in the box were moved by your words. Your influence yet grows, sister. If I can see it, then you can be sure our brother certainly did." Sereda's suspicious eyes narrowed at her dark younger brother where he walked beside her.

"I am well aware of our brother's petty jealousies, Bhelen," was all she replied, feeling the tension of his presence coiling through her body, hardening the muscle under her soft facade.

"You have grown into a threat to our brother's power, sister. You take his rightful place at the head of the armies, wear the armour that rightly belongs to the Heir Apparent. Our father honours you where he scorns Trian. If I were you, I would beware those 'petty jealousies' of his," warned Bhelen. When Sereda turned on him with her cold, hard eyes his face was blank, as if he had been commenting on the wares of the stalls that lined the Commons.

"Speak plainly, brother."

"I mean only to warn you, dear sister. I believe you would be a better King than our brother, and he knows others among the noble-caste feel the same. He may take action before the Assembly can vote if our father were to fall." Bhelen's face was the picture of innocence, but Sereda didn't believe anything that rolled off his tongue.

"Our brother is the Heir Apparent, brother. You and the noble-castes need to come to terms with our father's choice." With that Sereda left her brother in the tunnels of the commons.

"Did you want me to have people watch him, my lady?" Sereda merely shook her head as the pair entered the palace.

"They would see nothing, Gorim. My little brother is nothing if not shrewd about his schemes. There is nothing for it. We will deal with him after the expedition tomorrow." Sereda sighed as she left Gorim at the door, closing the heavy stone door and feeling everything that kept her composure crumpled as she slumped against the cold stone.

The constant fear tore little pieces of her soul apart as Sereda let the cold of the door seep into her bones. Constant vigilance, always watching those who should be her closest confidantes. Brothers who wished her dead so they could fight over the scraps of what power and influence she wielded as the first-daughter of the king and Commander of his armies. It was like being torn apart alive by starved deepstalkers. One bite barely tickled, but the swarm of them tried to consume her with every day.

With a long ragged breath, Sereda began to unbuckle her heavy Aeducan armour. One of the servant-castes had laid out a gown in Aeducan violet that set off her coppery hair and amethyst eyes. She was the only one of her siblings that had the Aeducan eyes; just as her grandmother, Queen Partha, before her. It was a trait of the Paragon Aeducan, now filtered through a dozen Houses through marriage and mixed lines, but her father had always loved his mother's eyes as they looked back at him on his daughter's face. Sereda can remember that first sting of Trian's jealousy when her father had told her those eyes promised greatness in her when she was only a girl, when she first picked up a small child's claymore. It was the first and least of Trian's grievances toward Sereda.

Sereda didn't even look at her reflection in the silver mirror. She didn't want to see how the dress pressed her plumpness into a more pleasing silhouette. The corset was uncomfortable enough pressing its wires into her soft rolling flesh and biting the muscle underneath. Her breasts were pushed up to her sodding chin by the Ancestors' sake. It didn't exactly scream Commander of Orzammar, but she wasn't the Commander for the Warden's feast. For this she was:

"Princess Aeducan Sereda, Commander of Orzammar, first-daughter of King Endrin the Peace-Maker," announced the court herald and Sereda readied herself for the onslaught of flattery, fawning, veiled threats and double meanings that night promised.

"We meet again, my lady," bowed Daylen with his saucy grin and Sereda smiled with genuine warmth at the mage. She found she liked the man, and his wispy elven friend. They were the only people in this room who wanted nothing from and Sereda felt as comfortable with them as she did with the warrior-castes she now commanded.

"So you're going into the Deep Roads tomorrow?" questioned Neria, her voice a mixture of worry and awe that made Sereda laugh as she sipped at her wine.

"Yes, Lady Surana. It will be my first expedition since my investment as Commander."

"You've fought darkspawn before?" That tone of incredulity belonged to Daylen and only served to make Sereda laugh even harder with dark mirth.

"Lord Mage, every warrior in Orzammar fought darkspawn before they lost their first teeth. We are accustomed to the duty you will adopt with the Wardens. We have always been at war with the darkspawn, since before the First Blight."

"I mean…I knew that from the books…but the reality." Neria's voice was a whisper and Sereda shrugged off her worry.

"We are used to it, Lady Surana. No need to worry yourself over our well-being on the morrow." With that Sereda smiled at the mages and left heir enjoyable company to make her rounds of this frustrating ball. Making small talk with the noble-castes was part of the duty of scion of the Aeducan line; and one Sereda would rather do without.

"My lady," smiled Gorim, saving her from a frustratingly circular conversation with Lord Harrowmont. Sereda smiled warmly at her Second, emboldened by the wine.

"Beg my pardon, Lord Harrowmont. My Second is to put me to bed. I do have an early start tomorrow after all. I am sure you understand, my lord." Lord Harrowmont bowed over her outstretched hand, kissing her knuckles with his dry, wrinkled lips.

"Of course, my lady. May the Ancestors watch over you in the Deep Roads. _Atrast tuncha_" Sereda flashed her sweetest smile and followed Gorim out of the grand hall. They exchanged nothing more than coy, sultry glances before they reached the safety of Sereda's room. Once the door clicked close behind them, Sereda found herself pressed against the cold door, Gorim attacking her mouth with hunger. His practiced hands pulled at the strings of her bodice, allowing Sereda to breath for the first time in hours.

"By the Stone, you are the most beautiful woman I have known," breathed Gorim against her bruised lips.

"Gorim, make me forget that we're going into the Deep Roads tomorrow," whispered Sereda, pulling her Second toward the bed with her soft, seductive smile and dancing amethyst eyes.

"Dust to dunkels, my lady," grinned Gorim as he unbuttoned his tunic.

* * *

_A/N: Quick translation - Atrast tuncha is a formal farewell, also spoken at dwarven funerals. _

_I find it kind of sad that the dwarves of DA know even less of their ancient tongue than the elves. I firmly believe language is a large part of culture and in every language there are nuances to words that can never really be __translated, but that shape and are shaped by the culture the language belongs to. It's a little sentimental for a video game fanfiction, but as someone who doesn't know the language, apart from a word here or there, of their own people it really does speak to something inside me._


	5. Shroud of Death

**Shroud of Death**

_As usual everything actually belongs to Bioware...except maybe a 'the' or 'and' here and there._

_AkaiAoi I'm so glad you foudn me revisiting of the old story . _

_I'm not sure if the pairings will be the same, or even if the Wardens themselves will be the same people. I think they have all changed a bit, but not hugely at this point, but I honestly don't know where their own story arcs will take them. _

* * *

Neria couldn't sit still in the lavish, albeit _tiny_ apartments Duncan and the mages had been granted in the Royal Palace. She was abuzz with excitement. Orzammar, the drama at the Provings, and a Royal Ball, of all things. There was so much she had experience in the last week, crossing the countryside with Duncan and travelling into the Frostback Mountains to Orzammar. Even the shock of the cold of the mountains was an exciting revelation for the sheltered elven mage. Reading about all of these things - the wind, the cold, royal balls and the thrill of watching dwarves warriors pit themselves against one another in a gala of glory and honour - had nothing on actually _living _such things.

"Daylen, how can you possibly lie around all day? You didn't even go to see off the Commander, her brothers and the King on their expedition to the lost Aeducan thaig." Daylen squinted one eye open at his jittery friend, her excitement crackling around the rooms like electricity.

"Because I drank what I assume is my weight in wine and my head feels like there is a giant inside throwing a fucking tantrum," groaned Daylen as his head throbbed from rolling his eyes.

"What if I healed you?" asked Neria, worrying her bottom lip and Daylen opened both dark chocolate eyes in shock. Neria had one no-exception rule wit him and Jowan: if they damaged themselves being idiots they had to heal the natural way and she would never help. That meant hangovers, bumps and scrapes and that one time Daylen caught Llomerryn Itch from a Circle transfer out of Antiva. That had been an awkward trip to the herbalists in the tower infirmary.

"You would break _rules_, Neri. I have been a bad influence on you; just as Senior Enchanter Wynne always feared." Neria threw him a withering look that turned thoughtful for a moment and a somewhat frightening, sly smile grew on her pink bow-like lips.

"Well….the Wardens don't have the same _rules _as the Circle, or myself, Dayle." Daylen faked a gasp of melodramatic shock. "Do you want the headache or not?"

"Not, please, Neri, not," moaned Daylen and Neria rolled her eyes as she waved her hand at the man, that soft blue light making her hands glow with healing magic. Tendrils of gentle coolness eased the screeching giant out of Daylen's brain and he sighed in relief. "Thanks, Neri. You're my favourite healer, ever."

"Well, you owe me now. So let's go! There's so much to _see_," ushered Neria and Daylen sighed, muttering obscenities as he followed her out the rooms.

Neria practically skipped through the tunnels, remembering the route from the day before. She attracted the stares of the unusually stoic and grim dwarves of the Commons and chuckles from Daylen. The stalls in the Commons sold all many of wonders; lyrium runes, dwarven jewellery, armour, and weapons, exotic smelling food made from animals Neria had never before laid eyes on, like nugs and brontos. Daylen didn't even hide his smile at the harried expressions of the dwarven merchants as they tried to keep up with her incessant torrent of questions, all delivered at the high speed of Neria's excitement. There was even a lava-fall that Neria could stare at all day, her mouth gaping open, the way the molten rock lit up the entire cavern in its reddish gold light.

Someone knocked Neria and she teetered, blue eyes wide with fear before Daylen's arms secured her on the safety of hard ground. The colour had drained from her face and Daylen's dark eyes were cold with anger as he glared at the guard who had knocked her. He moved through the crowd of dwarves, storming toward the guard, whether to to scold or burn the man Neria didn't know. She rushed after Daylen, unable to part the crowd with the same ease as the large, muscular man. She was just too thin and wispy to push those sturdy little people out of her way.

"Hold, Casteless!" called the guards as they gathered at the front of a shop. "You're under arrest for impersonation a warrior-caste, and for escaping imprisonment." Neria's brows furrowed in confusion as she pulled up beside an equally confused Daylen. They could easily see the commotion at the shop; two dark haired dwarves who looked like they had genuinely bathed in blood. Both men gripped their dual daggers tighter at the sight of the guards.

"Wait!" Both mages turned their heads at the sound of Duncan's voice, deep and commanding, as the Warden walked between the thugs and the guards.

"Grey Warden, this Casteless was imprisoned on King Endrin's orders for impersonating a warrior-caste. His fate belongs to the King," pointed out the Guard-Captain, his face stern and hard like stone.

"Yes, and he won the Proving in that disguise. This man is fierce warrior. The Grey Wardens could use such skill in combat," retorted Duncan and shock rippled through the gathering crowd. Neria and Daylen exchanged a look as a beautiful dwarves woman pushed past them and the guards, running toward the blood splattered Casteless.

"Faren!" she exclaimed as she all, but jumped into his arms, not caring about the drying blood that encrusted on his armour. She had tears streaming down her face and brand in black ink under her own eye as she looked up at the man with the same dark whiskey eyes.

"Rica, what are you doing here?" Rica fought her tears as she tried to get her words out.

"I-I had h-heard what happened at the P-Provings...w-what Jarvia d-did. Oh…Faren," she sobbed and the dwarf wrapped his sister in his arms, squeezing her tightly as she buried her head in his shoulder. Neria felt her heart go out to the dwarves. Clearly, Faren was to be executed and leave his sister behind. She couldn't even imagine what she would be like if she and Daylen were in the same situation.

"Excuse me, lady," interrupted Duncan sympathetically. "I was just offering your…brother?" At a nod from the siblings Duncan continued one. "I was offering your bother a place in the Ferelden Grey Wardens, if he wishes to accept the invitation."

"You…you wouldn't see him executed for the dishonour he brought to your Proving?" asked Rita, slightly stepping in front of her brother protectively. Duncan shook his head and her amber eyes darted to her brother's face. "Faren, you have to go. You have to take it."

"I'm not leaving you," protested Faren, firmly and Neria felt Daylen's hands on her shoulders as the other mage gave them a firm squeeze. Those would be the exact words he would say to her. Neria was sure if Duncan had only wanted Daylen at the tower he would have happily declined and faced whatever punishment Knight-Commander Greagoir had devised for their crime.

"You leave me either way; this way you _live_," argued Rica, making Neria smile sadly. She would have said that herself. "I'll be alright…I…I have a patron. He'll look after me, brother. Please, go with the Warden."

The two dwarves stared one another down, communicating silently. Years of familiarity that created silent conversations. Neria didn't miss that the other dwarves thug, a stout man with braids had disappeared in the commotion. Her ice blue eyes searched the crowd for any sight of the man, but he was like smoke.

"Fine. I accept your invitation, Grey Warden," sighed Faren, shoulders slumped in defeat, not remotely touched by the _honour_ of being asked to join the Wardens. With a nod of Duncan's head and a growl from the dwarves Guard-Captain, Faren followed Duncan toward the Diamond Quarter, Neria and Daylen falling into step behind them both.

Neria worried her bottom lip in thought. Did Duncan think that bringing in someone who was evidently a criminal was a good idea? She didn't want to doubt the Warden-Commander's judgement. After all he had saved Daylen and herself from similar fates, but the man was clearly a thug for the dwarven Carta, and was covered in _blood _for the Maker's sake. It reminded her far too much of the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ of Jowan's _blood magic_. Some healer she wasn going to be, getting so wound up over blood. Neria wasn't entirely unsympathetic to the dwarf's plight, but could he really be anything more than a thug?

Neria didn't voice her opinions, even to Daylen as the two - no, now three - recruits retired to their quarters beside Duncan's. The Warden-Commander had an audience with the King who had apparently returned from the expedition and wished for the Warden to help with some matter that had the guards all rather twitchy. They were ordered to stay in the Warden apartments, which made Daylen raise his eyebrows curiously, but Neria was still locked in her thoughts about Faren to really pursue the matter.

"What's wrong, Neri?" asked Daylen, sitting beside her on her bed where she had sat when Faren disappeared into the bathroom to clean the _blood _off his _Carta _armour. She looked up at her friend with his kind hazelnut eyes, handsome golden face twisted with concern and just sighed.

"It's nothing, really." Neria knew that Daylen didn't buy her lie, but he didn't push the matter, just sitting beside her quietly. "What's all the commotion in the palace about?"

"I don't know," shrugged Daylen, that concern still shining out of his dark eyes, mixing with his insatiable curiosity. "Maybe someone was injured by darkspawn, or infected with the Blight. Why else would the King call for Duncan?"

Neria nodded. It made sense. There was no use in calling on her healing gifts when it came to a dwarf. Her spells wouldn't be entirely useless, but they were certainly less effective than on a human or an elf. It probably had something to do with the whole dwarven lack of connection to the Fade; it was why they were the only race that could safely handle lyrium, afterall. At that point Faren came out of the bathroom, making her stiffen at the sight of him. Daylen felt her go rigid beside him, shooting her a questioning glance as he stood to introduce himself to the short man, holding out his forearm for a wrist clasp.

"My name is Daylen Amell, and this is my friend, Neria Surana. We are Grey Warden recruits as well," introduced Daylen and the man looked at the pair with suspicion.

"Brosca Faren," grunted the dwarf as he clasped the mage's wrist. "You, I can believe. You look like you could wield a sword, but her…a strong fart would knock the elf over." Daylen laughed at that, looking over at Neria and dissolving once again into laughter at the incredulity written on her face.

"We're mages," snapped Neria with narrowed icy eyes and the dwarf just shrugged.

"Can't say I know much about magic. Not even sure I really believe in it, to tell you the truth. People controlling the sodding elements seems a bit fantastical to me, like kid's stories." Faren jumped back in shock when Neria blasted ice at his feet, his whiskey eyes round like dinner plates as he looked at the slight elf. "Smack me arse and call me a Paragon," muttered Faren shaking his head while Daylen just chuckled.

"You must have pissed her off, Brosca," grinned Daylen. "Neri usually saves that spell for men who decide to get a bit too hands or mouthy."

"I…ah…I didn't mean to give offence," apologised Faren, eyeing her like a stick of lyrium dynamite. Neria merely huffed and the two men exchanged glances; Faren's somewhat fearful and Daylen's high amused.

Neria ignored them as the men started to talk, Faren digging into the veritable feast the palace servants always left on the table in their quarters. He ignored the cutlery, digging in with his dirt encrusted fingers and Daylen nibbled at some bread lathered in melted butter as he prodded the dwarf for the story of his escape./

"It wasn't much of an escape. I was knocked out, weren't I? I'm sure Jarvia and her men were quite daring, bribing some guards, killing some others to grab me for her own sodding prison. Guards are far more preferable than that blood-thirsty bitch," growled Faren, his mouth stuffed with cured Bronto ham. "She was gonna torture me, and Leske, too, for failing Beraht. Well, we didn't get her, but I cut Beraht's throat myself. The Carta will descend into a war for power for some time, so I guess my sister and Leske are safe for the time being. Rica might be safe for good if she has a powerful enough patron to safe-keep her from the Carta," shrugged Faren.

"You don't feel any guilt for killing someone, for murder?" snapped Neria, her eyes like icy daggers from the bed. Faren met her stare with a hard one of his own.

"No, I don't, _princess_," spat Faren. "Before I surprised that nug-fucking shit stain, he was joking to his men about how they would all get turns raping my sister to death. I feel no sodding guilt over ending a life like his. Orzammar is less of a Blight-infested shithole without the likes of Beraht." His words were like a knife and Neria regretted her harsh tone immediately. Who was she to judge someone else's actions? She wasn't the Maker, or the Ancestors as the case may be.

"I'm so-"

"Don't apologise, princess. I wouldn't expect some prissy little mage princess locked in her sodding tower to understand the shit the rest of us go through to survive in a world that wants to chew us up and spit us out." His voice was dark and gruff and Neria looked away from his accusing glare, looking down at her delicate pale hands, soft from a life of turning pages and the sweet smelling lotion Jowan had made her years ago for her birthday.

Any other conversation was halted by Duncan's return, the dark haired man opening the door gravely. Behind him stood the dwarves Commander, Sereda, her amethyst eyes downcast. Neria was shocked by her attire, more than anything. She didn't wear her heavy Aeducan armour, or even one of her beautiful velvet gowns. No, Aeducan was wearing a funeral shroud in earth brown. Those were only worn when the person was committed to the Stone at their death.

"We must leave Orzammar tonight," ordered Duncan, his voice heavy.

"Why? What happened to Princess Aeducan?" asked Daylen and Neria almost felt Faren narrow his eyes at the other dwarf where she stood quiet behind Duncan. The Grey Warden looked down at the dwarves woman and she glanced up to catch his stare and sighed.

"I am not a princess any more, Lord Mage, nor Aeducan." Sereda's voice was barely a whisper, but it rocked Neria. To have her title and name stripped from her, Sereda would have had to commit some unforgivable crime in the eyes of the Ancestor's. "I am dead, now, and my name has been stricken from the Shaperite. My funeral has been performed and I have been committed to the embrace of the Stone. I am walking dead."

"That sounds oddly...final…for someone who's alive and breathing," managed Daylen, confused, but Neria and Faren both nodded their heads in understanding.

"It is common enough when someone commits a capital crime," shrugged Faren. "They would have offered me the same choice. I would choose death over the Deep Roads, however." Daylen just looked back at the Carta dwarf in shock.

"That's...well, that's kind of barbaric, isn't?" Faren shrugged.

"I don't make the rules, human."

"I have been accused and found guilty of murdering my brother, Prince Trian. I chose duty over a meaningless death and the Warden offered me a place with the Grey Wardens on the surface to atone for the crime," whispered Sereda in clarification, her voice heavy and roughened as though she had been crying.

"You-You killed the Heir Apparent?" Neria's voice was soft, yet shrill with surprise. She never thought the personable dwarves princess capable of such a crime.

"I didn't kill him." Sereda looked up with hard violet eyes, her tone sharp like a polished blade. "Bhelen killed him and had me framed. He was always a better political manipulator than us and he is reaping his rewards now."

"Dwarves…are weird." That from Daylen and Faren barked with mirthless laughter at that./

"Just the diamond-blood, human. Shit's simpler in Dust Town: survive at any cost."

"It's much the same in the Diamond Quarter, Casteless," shrugged Sereda in an attempt at nonchalance. "The problem is that everyone wants you dead and doesn't want to be seen wielding the blade."

"We leave in an hour," was all Duncan contributed to the conversation, leaving for his own quarters. After a few moment of shocked silence Neria began to move stiffly, packing her small pack that jingled with the sounds of vials, both full and empty. She was trying to boost their supplies of health and lyrium potions before Ostagar. Daylen appeared at her shoulder.

"Sodding dwarves," was all he muttered and Neria found herself giggle nervously at the comment, the two dwarves behind them doing nothing more than glare. Well, Faren glared at Sereda and the woman glared at her boots.

The whole situation was somewhat disconcerting. Both of their new companions were convicted, or accused in Faren's case, of pretty horrendous crimes; murder...and on Sereda's part, fratricide. Not that Neria really believed the dwarven ex-princess would do such a thing, but what did she really know about the woman. She could be a much more cold and twisted person than the one they knew from the ball.

* * *

"I'm going to fall into the sodding sky," swore Faren under his breath drawing a questioning look from Daylen, who grinned at the comment. "Shit's unnatural. No ceiling...ugh...it makes me dizzy."

The dwarven man did seem a little feint, and even Sereda was pale in the dying light of the evening where she stood staring up at the sky in a blend of terror and awe. Ahead of the four recruits Duncan just chuckled under his brother.

"It never gets old taking dwarves to the surface." Neria smiled a little at Duncan's murmured words.


	6. Upon Castle Highever

**Upon Castle Highever**

_Now for what is probably my second most played through Origin storyline, after City Elf; the Human Noble. It's such a fantastically stereotypical fantasy beginning and I love it for that. I hope you enjoy._

_And AkaiAoi, I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far. I have my favourites, but I'm sure I'll grow to love them all one way or another ^.^_

* * *

Aedan Cousland could feel the heat of Highever's midday sun cooking him inside of the light chainmail armour he wore for training. He snarled as he battered away Ser Gilmore's sweeping attack, ramming his friend with a wooden shield, sending the knight sprawling to the ground. The young noble was upon his friend in an instant, training sword against Rory's throat. The young knight grinned.

"I yield." Aedan smiled now, ripping off his stuffy helmet and rising to his feet. He pulled his friend up with him and wiped the sweat from his brow as he began unbuckling the cooking armour.

"Maybe you should fight in tomorrow's tournament for the Grey Wardens, milord," offered Ser Gilmore as he put away their practice weapons and the noble's practice armour. Now cooled by the light breeze through his leathers Aedan merely shrugged.

"As if my father would ever allow it, Rory. I'm not even to fight at Ostagar against the darkspawn. Instead I must stay here and babysit the castle while he and Fergus ride off into battle together." Aedan's voice held a sourness that Ser Gilmore had come to expect from his friend. As a second son to Teyrn Bryce, Aedan was superfluous. He would not inherit the Teyrnir and could not be married off to some wealthy Arl or Bann like a daughter. A second son was all, but useless and Aedan intended to be as much a headache as he could.

"Careful, milord, Her Grace approaches." Gilmore's eyes flicked to where Teyrna Eleanor watched the boys with a small, proud smile on her lips. Aedan beamed at his mother and jogged across the practice field to where she stood with one of her friends, a woman whose name was lost on Aedan, but in whom's wake stood a beautiful young elf.

"You fight well, my boy," smiled Eleanor, her Orlesian accent faint and almost indistinguishable to untrained ears. Aedan wrapped his arms around his petite mother before letting her go and grinning back at her.

"Would you like to spar, mother?" There was mischief in Aedan's eyes and the Teyrna laughed and shook her head.

"You know as well as I do, Aedan that swordplay is not for a woman such as myself. Give me a bow anytime and I'll show you what a battle maiden can be capable of. Now let me introduce you to Lady Landra, her son, Dairren, and her lady-in-waiting, Iona." His mother gestured, lastly, to the blonde-haired, blue eyed beauty who looked up shyly at Aedan through long lashes.

Aedan smiled his most charming smile at the three of them. He offered Dairren a wrist clasp which the young man returned with surprising strength. He bowed and kissed Lady Landra's hand, offering the same courtesy to her beautiful lady-in-waiting, allowing his lips to linger just a little on the soft flesh of her hand. Flicking his piercing blue eyes up at the girl he was rewarded with a crimson blush spreading across her cheeks and released her hand.

"Aeden," interrupted Teyrna Eleanor, rather pointedly, her pale green eyes on her licentious son. "Nan is in quite a state. Apparently your dog is in the larder – again." Despite spending her whole life in Ferelden, even fighting against Orlais so many years ago, Eleanor could never quite shake her Orlesian sense of disgust for the muddy creatures. She had, however, resigned herself to the muddy Mabari pawprints becoming part of the castle décor.

Aeden grinned sheepishly. He was the one who taught the bright little troublemaker _how_ to turn door handles afterall. He bowed farewell to his mother, Lady Landra and her son, allowing his piercing blue eyes to linger on pretty Iona for just a little longer before he marched off to retrieve his warhound.

Highever Castle was an ancient labyrinth. Much like the city below the castle had been designed to confound intruders with its winding, narrow passageways and twisting corridors that led nowhere. Aeden wasn't an invader, however, he was the son of the Teyrn and had grown up behind these thick grey stone walls. He knew the castle's passageways like the back of his hand.

Nan's kitchen was down near the guards' barracks and servants' quarters, just south of the Great Hall. Aeden could hear the kitchen before he even saw the door. Nan's unmistakable shrill voice cutting through the air with all the grace of a blunted, rusty battle-axe. Even as a grown man the sound of her rage made Aeden cautious; Nan was a formidable woman in her own right. A long time ago, before Aeden had been born she had been a soldier in the rebel army fighting Orlesians like his mother. Unlike the delicate and gentle Teyrna, however, Nan had been a frontline soldier, fighting with a wicked and heavy dwarven great-axe. It paid to tread lightly around Nan's temper.

"I swear to the Maker I will skin that mutt and wear him as a bleeding coat!" Aeden fought to suppress a grin at that as he turned the handle and entered the kitchen, drawing Nan's dark stormy grey eyes to him.

"You!" Brandishing a pan Nan stormed up to Aeden, her aged face hard and unforgiving. "This is all your thrice-damned fault. You sent him to badger me and destroy my kitchen, didn't you, you little shit?"

"I swear I had nothing to do with this, Nan," promised Aeden with his hands up and his emerald eyes wide as he watched that pan. It was no great-axe, but in Nan's hands it was as good as. "Maybe he smelt a rat? He is a guard dog, after all and he considers this his territory to be protected, Nan."

"Rats?" squeaked one of the kitchen servants and Nan glared at the elven scullery maid.

"I do not have _rats_ in my kitchen, Aeden Bryce Leonas Cousland." All four names made Aeden wince. Nan was _not_ happy."I swear by the Void I will poison your food if you don't get that beast out of my larder."

"Yes, ma'am," muttered a cowed Aeden as he moved toward the larder.

"What the Teyrn was thinking when he gave that boy a Mabari warhound, I'll never know," grumbled Nan before snapping at the servants to get back to work.

Aeden opened the door to the larder to see Cat rip the head off a particularly large rat. The dog looked up at his master and barked in satisfaction as he wagged his tail happily. Aeden smiled at Cat, kneeling down as the large, muscular animal nuzzled his hand.

"Good Cat," smiled Aeden and Cat's little stubbed tail wagged with pride. "Good guardsman. You were just protecting Nan from the rats, weren't you boy?" Cat barked once in agreement, strutting out the larder like a rooster.

"Well you got him out," grunted Nan by way of thanks.

"He killed the rats, Nan." There was nothing Nan hated more than rats. The fierce warrior disappeared at the sight of their little clawed feet and she turned into a delicate flower of the Orlesian court; a loud, screeching flower.

"Well…if there were rats after all, he better have killed them all," spat Nan, giving the Mabari a long hard glare as Cat wagged his little tail and barked happily. "What? You think you get a reward for making a mess of my larder, mutt?"

Cat whimpered, his big black eyes going all soft and sad and Nan just rolled her eyes. "I am immune to your so called charms, dog." Her words just made Cat whimper all the more, lying down on his belly in sadness. The whole thing made Aeden snicker. Cat was a master manipulator like no other.

"Fine," grumbled Nan, turning to the bench and tossing Cat a rich, juicy steak. "There, now get out of my kitchen." Cat barked once happily, collecting his spoils and trotting out of the kitchen happily.

"You, too. I have food to cook and you're in the damned way, boy." Aeden scooted quickly, smiling as he closed the kitchen door behind him. Cat had disappeared into some forgotten hole to feast on his reward, no doubt, and Aeden made his way to the Great Hall where his father would be before he and Fergus marched out to Ostagar. The thought made Aeden sour, but he wash't about to throw a childish fit and refuse to wish them farewell and luck against the darkspawn.

The hall was beautiful and warmed by three great hearth fires that made even winter melt away from its stones when the snows fell outside. Aeden was sure there were few castles as _warm _as Highever when winter gripped Ferelden and he was glad he could always wait out the snow in the relive comfort of these fire-warmed walls.

"Ah, there you are, pup," beamed Teyrn Bryce from his dias where he had been talking with Arl Rendon Howe. Behind him was a dark haired man with a gruff beard wearing silverite armour embellished with the Grey Warden griffon. He was flanked by four…well, rather odd looking companions; a tall, broad shoulder man with terracotta skin and dark eyes; a serenely beautiful elven girl who looked as if she had been plucked out of the Fade itself, with her white hair and pale blue eyes; a black skinned dwarf with a tattoo beneath one honey-coloured eye and hard, stony features; and a plump dwarven woman wearing a plain dress in earth tones that made her bright copper hair and strange violet eyes stand out all the more.

"You were looking for me, father?" asked Aeden, tearing his eyes from the strange company of the Grey Warden to look up at his father. Both he and Fergus could be oil paintings of their father, if it weren't for their mother's soft green eyes. They took after their father with dark, sun-tanned skin, the sharp, stern features and perpetually messy black hair, even though Teyrn Bryce's hair was more grey than black these days.

"Of course, pup. I don't believe you've met Warden-Commander Duncan, or his recent recruits. This is Daylen Amell and Neria Surana of the Circle, and Brosca Faren and Aeducan Sereda of Orzammar. If the Maker wills it, they will soon see one of our own number among them," added Bryce with a smile. Aeden hid his internal sigh, smiling instead at the Warden.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintances," greeted Aeden, clasping wrist with the three men and bending to place a chaste kiss on the hands of the two women. "And nice to see you again, Arl Howe," he added, turned to the older nobleman with a respectful nod of his head.

"By the Maker, the last time I saw you, Aeden, you were all awkward limbs….fourteen, maybe fifteen?"

"I've had a couple of namedays since then, Arl Howe, and a lot more practice in the yard," added Aeden with a laugh.

"My daughter, Delilah, asks after you. Perhaps next time I ought to bring her south with me," added Rendon with that sly, cunning glint in his eyes. Aeden sighed. Delilah was a lovely girl, if a little plain, but she was like a sister; to be made fun of and protected.

"She's quite a bit younger than I am, my lord," smiled Aeden graciously, making Howe bark with laughter.

"Those years come to matter less as you get older, son," chortled Howe and Bryce shook his head at his childhood friend.

"Now, I did want to see you for a reason, Aeden," interrupted Bryce with a quick glance at his old friend. "Since you will be the custodian of Highever while your brother and I are gone, you are in charge of organising the tourney tomorrow with your mother. I will be riding out at first light, when Arl Howe's men arrive from Amaranthine. I do believe Duncan already has a favourite to win, in our own Ser Gilmore," added Bryce with a smile and Aeden tried not to let the bitterness and envy of his best friend show. Rory deserved the honour. He was the best fighter in the guard.

"I would also suggest, Your Grace, that your son would be a wonderful addition to the Ferelden Grey," interjected Duncan, his face and voice never changing from his utterly calm demeanour. The four recruits behind him traded glances, but Aeden ignored them, looking instead at his father.

"Honour, though that maybe, I've not so many sons to risk them both to the darkspawn, Duncan." Bryce's voice had a note of warning to it that set Aeden's teeth on edge.

"Have no fear," surrendered Duncan with a bow of his head. "With as many recruits as I already have there is no great need to press the issue, Your Grace." Bryce nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to his younger son.

"Pup, find Fergus and let him know he will be riding out with Highever's troops ahead of me. I will wait until Howe's men arrive and ride south with Amaranthine's forces."Aeden opened his mouth to say something, but Bryce raised a hand to stall him. "We will talk before I leave tomorrow, pup."

Aeden tried not to storm out of the Great Hall into the family quarters. Both his father's refusal to let him seeve and Arl Howe's tardiness grated on his nerves.

Arl Rendon Howe was one of Aeden's father's oldest friends, along with Leonas Bryland, after whom Aeden Bryce Leonas Cousland had been named. The men had both fought with Bryce and King Maric in the Rebellion against the Orlesian occupation thirty years ago as young warriors under the commoner General, Loghain Mac Tir. Aeden was well aware Rendon had little love for Maric's son, as did most of the Bannorn, thinking of Aeden's childhood friend as an untested boy with a crown atop his head. When his father had been his age he was already winning battles against Orlais, and bringing Ferelden to freedom.

Walking into Fergus and Oriana's rooms he felt a smile tease the corner of lips as he heard his five year old nephew's voice wafting out of the main room.

"Is there really going to be a war, padre? Will you bring me back a s…sw..ard?" Oren was a precocious child, always flicking between Antivan and the Common Tongue, and no one, not even Aeden could help falling in love with the boy. He heard Fergus' deep chuckle as he opened the door to the rooms.

"It's pronounced sword, Oren," chuckled Fergus lightly, ruffling the boy's hair. "I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. I'll be back before you know it."

"I wish victory was indeed so certain," worried Oriana, her thick Antivan accent dripping over her words like honey. "My heart is…disquiet." Fergus stood and took the beautiful dark skinned woman's hands in his own, looking down at her with so much love that Aeden felt he was intruding on something private and he had to look elsewhere.

"Don't frighten the boy, _mi cara_," soothed Fergus with a smile and he kissed his wife's hands. "I speak the truth. And here's my little brother to see me off," he added with a grin, turning to Aeden.

"The great Fergus Cousland going soft at a woman's touch," mocked Aeden, good naturally, making even Oriana smile slightly while Fergus barked with laughter.

"When there's a woman in your life, little brother, you'll understand."

"There are plenty of women in my life, Fergus," shrugged Aeden with a wicked smile and Fergus chuckled as he shook his head.

"I mean a real woman, not some wench who's name you can't recall."

"Fergus!" Oriana voice was stricken as her dark eyes flitted to their son watching his father and uncle banter.

"What's a wench, madre? Is that what the servants use to get water out of the well." Aeden chuckled and shook his hea

"No, Oren, that's a winch," smiled Aeden "A wench is.."

"Don't you listen to them, Oren," warned Oriana, glaring at her brother-in-law murderously. "They talk filth, and if I catch you repeating any of this I'll send you to Mother Mallol."

"But madre, she talks forever," whined Oren before a hard stare from Oriana cowed the boy into quiet, fidgeting under her hard dark glare.

"I wish you could come, Aeden," sighed Fergus. "It'll be tiring killing all those darkspawn myself," he added with a needling grin of his own.

"Surely your father would not place both his heirs in danger," interjected Oriana sagely. She was a well educated woman, and rather politically cunning, something Fergus lacked. Oriana had, after all, grown up in Antivan in the convoluted courts of the Antivan nobility where intrigue and assassination were even more common place than in Orlais. She knew the game of politics better than even their mother, Eleanor, and was a master player in her own right.

"It's too bad. It would have been good to have you at my side," added Fergus sincerely. Aeden smiled warmly at that, clapping his brother on the arm.

"You'll be missed brother, though the Maker alone knows why I miss someone who used to put horse droppings in my pillows," laughed Aeden, making Fergus grin and Oriana sigh in defeat.

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rain and be very jealous of you up here, warm and safe."

"I am positively _thrilled_ that you will be so miserable, Fergus," retorted Oriana in a droll voice, levelling a withering dark glare at her husband.

"_Novia_, the word from the south is that the battles have gone well. There is no evidence of a true Blight, no Archdemon - just a very large raid. Pray for me, love, and I'll be back within a month or two," promised Fergus, his voice soft and dripping with affection. "So what brings you here, brother?"

"Father says to march out ahead of him. Howe's men are delayed." Fergus sighed rubbing his hand over his face.

"You'd think they were all marching backward," grumbled Fergus in annoyance. "Well, I better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time and all that."

"I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave," interrupted their father's unmistakable voice and Bryce and Eleanor stood at Fergus' door, their mother's face twisted with worry.

"Be well, my son," managed Eleanor with a sad smile as she took her eldest's hands in her own. "I will pray every day for your safe return."

"I keep telling you, mother; no darkspawn will ever best me," smiled Fergus lovingly, trying to cheer their mother up.

"The Maker sustain and preserve us all," muttered Oriana, half curse and half prayer, making Aeden snicker.

"Nonno?" interrupted Oren, looking up at his grandfather. "What's a wench? Zio and padre won't tell me." Bryce chuckled at his grandson's innocent tactlessness.

"A wench is…a woman who pours the ale at a tavern, Oren," smiled Bryce. "Or…a woman who drinks a lot of ale," he added quietly, earning a half hearted slap on the shoulder from Eleanor.

"Bryce! Maker's breath, I swear it's like living with a pack of small boys," grumbled Eleanor, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. Fergus chuckled as he embraced their mother.

"I'll miss you, mother dear," smiled Fergus as he gave her lithe farm a tight squeeze. "You'll look after her, won't you?" asked Fergus, his green eyes looking pointedly at his younger brother.

"Mother can handle herself," shrugged Aeden and Eleanor smiled at her baby boy.

"It's true," laughed Fergus. "They should be sending her and Nan, not me. They would scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads."

"Pup, you'll be wanting to get an early sleep if you're to see me off tomorrow," smiled Bryce making Aeden sigh.

"Getting sent to bed early?" needled Fergus, for what would be the last time for a month or so.

"Have fun on that long march of yours," farewelled Aeden with a wave as he left his brother's room, the sound of Fergus' laughter carrying down the corridor to Aeden's room.

Later that night there was a soft rap at Aeden's door as he emerged from his stone bathtub. He wrapped a drying cloth around his naked hips and opened the door expecting to see one of the castle servants. Instead pale blue eyes widened in shock at his appearance, dishevelled with his dark hair still dripping and all but naked. Underneath white-gold hair Aeden could see the sharp little tips of Iona's elven ears turn pink.

"I…milord. I…I apologise. I did not-" Aeden merely held a finger against her soft lips to silence her.

"No need to apologise, Iona." He reluctantly moved his finger, fighting the urge to stroke her lips. "I haven't seen many elven ladies-in-waiting."

"Lady Landra has been…very good to me. I am lucky." Aeden noticed her eyes flicking down to scour his exposed torso, for just a second before those pale blue orbs were his face again. "If I may," continued Iona shyly. "Your mother has no ladies-in-waiting, herself. Is that usual for a noblewoman of her rank?"

"If she found a maid like you," grinned Aeden, his eyes shamelessly raking her comely figure, hugged tightly by the off-shoulder dress she wore. "I might encourage her."

"You are…very kind, milord," stammered Iona, her face turning a pleasant shade of pink. I am nobody special." She held a hand softly to her cheek and giggled nervously. "You make me blush."

"Perhaps you should come inside, Iona, and we could…get to one another better." Her eyes widened once more and she blushed scarlet as she nodded, stepping inside his room. Then she turned an calculating eye on the young nobleman as he closed the door behind her with a soft click.

"Aren't we doing just that?" she questioned innocently with a faint smile on her lips. "What else did you have in mind?" Aeden moved towards her and the young maid took a hesitant step backwards, into the wall. Aeden lifted a hand to stroke the angular plane of her high elven cheekbone, his voice barely a whisper.

"Perhaps something a little more intimate," he suggested, almost at a purr. She bit her lower lip and looked up at Aeden through her lashes, her blue eyes darkened with desire and Aeden pressed his lips against hers, pushing her further into the wall. She kissed him back with abandon, fuelling Aeden's lust and he growled, steering the elf toward the bed.

* * *

_Mi Cara - I think it means my heart, an Antivan term_

_Novia - my own made up Antivan for beloved (originally Spanish...I think)_

_Zio, padre, madre, nonno, are all familial terms from a mix of Spanish and Italian._


	7. The Bear's Betrayal

**The Bear's Betrayal**

_Okay, so Aeden is a little bit easier to write than Faren...maybe I'm just a heartless bitch and can't quite force myself to enter such a dark mind twisted by a lifetime of struggle and hatred. I'm hoping he gets easier to write. I really want him to be a character I love as much as I love my other Wardens. Anyways onward with co-opting Bioware's property for harmless, free fun._

* * *

A scream tore Aeden and Iona from the deep recesses of the Fade and they sat up, startled. Iona's blue eyes were wide with fear as she clambered out of the bed, covering her nakedness with the bed covers.

"What are you doing?" hissed Aeden as he stood, too, not bothering to cover himself.

"It could be Lady Landra," she whispered back, insure. "My lady is so terrified of spiders." Without further ceremony she placed her hand on the door handle and cracked open the door. Aeden heard the whiz of an arrow and the dull thus as it imbedded itself, right through the elven lass's right eye.

Iona lay there, unmoving, one eye staring unseeingly up at the ceiling in which the Cousland battle against the werewolf epidemic of ancient times was depicted in oil. Aeden roared with fury, grabbing his sword from where it sat beside his armour stand.

The first man through the door found himself missing a head as it rolled across the rich carpet, underneath the bed. The second man found the hand he clutched his bow with suddenly on the ground and he screamed in pain, grasping fruitlessly at the stump of his arm before Cat came out of nowhere and tore the bowman's throat out.

Aeden just stood there, nude and covered in blood, looking at the dead body of the beautiful elven girl. He took a deep breath to calm himself, feeling the welcoming chill wash over him, numbing him from the inside out. He buckled on his polished chainmail armour, his fingers knowing their way around the myriad buckles as if it were instinct. He strapped his shield to his back and tied the sheath of his sword around his hips.

As he made his way into the corridor he heard a door open to his left, where his parents slept. Without a thought he had his weapon drawn and pointed at the throat of the person who emerged from behind the door, only to pull back from the killing thrust just in time. Dressed in the armour gifted to her by the late Queen Rowan herself, was Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, her green eyes ablaze as her bow was pulled taut, ready to shoot. Upon seeing her son Eleanor relaxed her hold on her weapon.

"Aeden. Oh, thank the Maker. The screams woke me up. Did you see their shields, Aeden?" She was fighting tears of desperation and rage now as her blazing green eyes looked deep into Aeden's own cold ones. "Amaranthine bears: They were Arl Howe's men."

Realisation dawned on Aeden. Shock. Confusion. And then, anger, so cold it burned. His jaw tightened, his eyes hardened. This treachery would not go unpunished.

"He lied. His men weren't delayed at all. He was just waiting until _we _had moved our forces on so he could attack. The Void take that double-crossing bastard," growled Aeden. His voice sent a chill through Eleanor. Her youngest son was more like Bryce than Fergus ever was. Fergus was quick to anger like herself, but his temper fizzled out just as fast. Bryce and Aeden however, were slow to boil and when they did not even Andraste herself could get between them and their quarry.

"We have to find your father, and Oriana and Oren, too. Aeden, we must escape. There is no way we can fight the Arl's men with just a token." Aeden ground his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to find Howe and gut him, to watch him die a traitor's death, but his mother was right.

"Is there nothing else we can do?"

"The Vault. The family shield and sword are there. It's not much but I'd rather die than let Howe have them," hissed Eleanor, her fierce gaze searching ahead of them. Aeden nodded, moving ahead of his mother with Cat at his heels.

They made their way towards Oriana's rooms, Cat sniffing out ahead of them to warn them of enemies.

They had found a couple of stragglers in the corridors. Aeden had forgotten what a keen shot his mother was. She never wasted an arrow, almost every one was a kill shot, and if not it incapacitated them long enough for Aeden to finish them off. Cat was just as ferocious. Aeden's rage seemed to boil down to the Mabari through the imprinting and the hound showed no mercy for those he brought down with tooth and claw.

When they reached Oriana's room the trio stopped dead. Cat whimpered and Eleanor and Aeden just stared at the opened door. Finally Eleanor let out an anguished cry and ran into the room, flinging the door open and Aeden felt his stomach fall out from beneath him.

Oriana lay on the bloodied sheets of her marriage bed, a dagger in her hand and a dead soldier at her feet. She had obviously been subjected to all kinds of horrors before she'd found the blade. Her dress was torn and bruises and cuts adorned her now cold body.

On the other side of the room lay Oren, Eleanor cradling the cold body of her young grandson, crying. There was a gash across his throat, hanging open like a second mouth, blood staining the shirt he always wore to bed. It was Fergus' shirt and Aeden bit back against his own tears.

The boy had been so young, barely five, idolising both Aeden and Fergus as heroes. He had wanted to be trained in swordsmanship, be a warrior just as they and now he was dead, the battered and abused body of his mother nearby. A sadistic voice in Aeden's head wondered who had died first.

"Mother," choked out Aeden, grasping Eleanor's shoulder.

"My little boy, little Oren," she cried in a blood-curdling voice, unaware of her son.

""Mother. We have to find father. Please." She seemed to see Aeden then, the colour return to her red eyes. There was a fury taking over the sadness now, like a tornado as it lands on an open plane.

"Howe will pay for this," she promised. "Before he dies, Rendon Howe will _know _pain unlike any man before him." The rage within gave her voice a thick Orlesian accent and Aeden caught a glimpse of the woman she had been during the civil war when she was just Eleanor DeFroi, bodyguard of Queen Rowan.

As they moved through the winding passageways of the castle Eleanor fought with a ferocity she'd not known since the Battle of River Dane nearly thirty years ago. She was shooting arrows as quickly as an elf, with aim just as true, while Aeden used his rage to fuel his muscles, slicing men clean in half, armour and all.

They manage to free up small pockets of resistance from both their servants and soldiers, massing a small army as they made their way to the Vault. Despite the many treasures that lined the walls, Eleanor had only eyes for the Shield of Highever and the family sword. Eleanor turned to her son, holding the blade and shield almost reverently as she gazed intently into Aeden's eyes.

"Take them, Aeden. They are yours and Fergus' by right." Silently, Aeden nodded and replaced his own battered shield and sword with the Cousland ones. "And you make sure both blade and shield sate their appetites for Howe blood."

"I swear it, mother," promised Aeden as he replaced his battered shield and old sword with the family heirlooms. Nan clapped him on the arm, her face as hard as his mothers, her famous great-axe in hand.

"Let's find the bastard." Aeden nodded, leading their small group toward the Great Hall, where both his father and Howe had been last. If the Maker was good, Bryce would have gutted Rendon right there, letting the bugger bleed out on the blue carpets of the dias. Aeden just hoped his father hadn't yet fallen victim to the Arl's treachery.

"Father!" called Aeden, as he stepped into Great Hall to see Rory and a handful of guardsmen fighting Amaranthine soldiers. Beside his friend were the dwarves Grey Warden recruits. The woman wore heavy plate and swung a great claymore with all the easy of a cook brandishing a cooking knife, battering the soldiers with a barely concealed rage in her sparkling amethyst eyes. The other dwarf moved with surprising grace and dexterity, never standing still long enough for a blade to touch his battered leathers, his twin longswords dancing around the soldiers in a flurry of blood and skill.

As Aeden and his own small force engaged the Arl's men, Nan charging in with a battle cry and his mother letting off arrows with deadly ease, he was shocked as the soldier in front of his froze to the ground, looking down at the ice that incased his boots with wide, fearful eyes. Aeden lopped off the man's head and turned to see the elven mage directing ice along the battle, her hands also glowing with some otherworldly blue light as he felt his exhaustion dissipate and his vigour renewed. The other mage stood beside her, a hulking protector who brandished the elements like a regular man brandishes a sword, slaying soldiers with fire, earth and lightning in a frightening display of the Chantry's horror stories about mages and Tevinter.

As the last soldier left fell to Eleanor's kill shot the men's shoulders sagged, but Rory was having none of it.

"Go, man those doors. Keep those bastards out as long as you're alive, dammit," ordered Ser Gilmore and his men moved to the door, readying themselves for another fight as they moved whatever furniture they could in front of the great double doors.

The doors were carved in a style reminiscent of ancient Alamarri woodwork of Bann Haelia rallying her lords against the werewolves. Next was a piece that depicted the war between Highever and Amaranthine for Highever's independence; a battle the Couslands had won against the Howes. Beneath was a depiction of the defeat of Teyrna Elethea's army against Calenhad the Unifier. The final complete artwork was of her bending the knee to the first King of Ferelden, head held high in defeat. Beneath that was the unfinished work that should have recorded the battle of Harper's Ford and the defeat of Rendon Howe's father, Byron. Howe treachery was carved into the ancient wood, obvious for all the world to see.

Rory Gilmore's eyes moved to Aeden and Eleanor.

"Your Grace, my lord, thank the Maker you're both alive. I was certain that bastard's men had gotten through."

"They did." There was no emotion in Aeden's voice, he couldn't allow emotion to overwhelm him right now. The cold, numb place in his mind was all that was keeping him moving, keeping him alive.

"They killed Oren and Oriana," shuddered Eleanor, her voice rough, but her face clear of any tears. She had no more tears to cry. "Are you injured?"/

"The elven mage, Lady Surana, has kept myself and the men healed," pointed out Rory and Aeden watched as the slight mage bent over another of Ser Gilmore's guards where he lay gritting his teeth as he held his side in an attempt to keep from bleeding out. Her hands were shaking with exhaustion as she ran her softly glowing hands over the rent flesh, sewing it back together with magic, her pale eyes tired and dark rings encircling them as the other mage helped her up, bearing her slight weight on his own. "Duncan's people turned the tide of the battle for us."

"Don't worry about me, Your Grace. Thank the Maker you two are unharmed." Ser Gilmore looked over at the barred door. "When I realised what was happening I managed to get these men together to shut the doors, but they won't keep the Amaranthine forces out for long. If you know of some other way out of the castle, please, use it."

"What about my father? Have you seen him, Rory?" asked Aeden.

"When I saw the Teyrn he had been badly injured, the Grey Warden was leading him toward the kitchen. That's when he ordered his recruits to help secure the castle with us. Now that's done, I expect they'll need to return to their Commander," added Ser Gilmore, gravelly.

"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," praised Eleanor, clapping the man on the arm. "May the Maker watch over you."

"Maker, watch over us all, Your Grace," was all he said before he escorted them and the Warden recruits toward to exit.

As Ser Gilmore barred the door behind them Aeden felt a numbness in his chest. He had offered his brother-in arms a wrist clasp and hug before leaving him with a token force to try and hold off Howe's men as long as possible. He had grown up with Rory Gilmore, being of the same age with all the same interests they'd been the best of friends their whole lives and now Aeden knew he was leaving his battle-brother to his death and the thought chilled him to the core.

By the time they reached the kitchens and saw the crumpled bodies of Nan's servants there had been so much death Aeden didn't even register their passing. He could hear he quiet sobs of the elven mage as she buried her face in the other mage's chest.

"I can feel them all, Dayle," she whispered in pain, gripping the front of his robes in small fists. "They're in so much pain." Aeden didn't know what she was talking about, and the dwarves both eyed the elf with trepidation and caution. Magic was even more feared in Orzammar than the Chantry lands, as a force they knew nothing about not being born with a connection to the Fade as humans and elves, and even Quanari had, but that dwarves lack.

It was in the larder that they finally found Bryce, lying over the secret passage way, gasping for air and clutching at his stomach in an attempt to keep his insides where they belonged.

"Bryce!" Eleanor exclaimed, tears running down her face as she enveloped her husband in her arms, kissing him all over his face before finally settling on his lips.

"H-Howe," he coughed, staring into the emerald fires of his wife's eyes. "Howe…betrayed us."

"We know, father. He will pay for this." Bryce turned his grey-blue eyes on his younger son, as if seeing Aeden for the first time. His eyes looked sad, however, as he looked pass Aeden to see no one there, but Duncan's recruits.

"Oren…Oriana…they didn't make it?" The silence was answer enough for Bryce and he let out a shuddering breath, looking now to the far corner to where the Warden-Commander, Duncan showed himself.

"Duncan, take my wife and son. Please, I beg of you." The Warden Commander's face was set in stone as he nodded once.

"I will, my lord, but I require something in return."

"Anything, Duncan. Name your price."

"While what has happened here is unfortunate, what I go to face is worse still. I need Grey Wardens." Bryce sighed and looked once at his youngest son, barely into his twentieth year and nodded once.

"No! We're not leaving without you, father," protested Aeden, angry that his father, a hero of the Ferelden Rebellion, would just give up so easily.

"Son, I cannot stand. I would bleed out and even if you were to carry me I would slow you down and most likely die before we could reach aid."

"There are mages here, they can heal you, father," pleaded Aeden and Bryce looked past his son to the two robed figures behind him.

""I..ah..I can't heal so much as a paper cut," said Daylen in a sad, sorry voice. "And Neria is too drained for an injury of that magnitude."

"I'm so sorry. If I had known…" Nera's voice faltered through her tears, but Bryce merely shook his head.

"The best I can do for you is hold them off a little longer and buy time for you and your mother to escape," gasped Bryce, reaching across the floor of the larder for his sword.

"_We _will buy you time, Aeden," corrected Eleanor with a scowl at her husband. "I have lived and fought buy your side for thirty years Bryce Cousland and I'm not about to stop now." She turned her green eyes to her son then, the fire softening. "This isn't the life we wanted for you, Aeden, but this is the Maker's will. Just promise me that you will repay Arl Howe in kind if you should cross paths."

Biting the words in his mouth Aeden nodded, defeated. He felt as if his heart was torn from his chest, still beating, but he forced himself to remain strong for his parents as he followed Duncan into the secret tunnel.

"I love you, Eleanor," whispered Bryce, kissing his wife fervently.

"I love you, too." With that, Eleanor turned to the door, readying her bow as the first strike of an ax shook the wood.

* * *

Outside the castle the Warden and his recruits didn't rest. The other four eyed Aeden and his dog, but he never spoke, and he never ate when they made camp. His feet followed their's as they marched through the wilderness, staying far from the roads in case Howe had men patrolling them already. He could feel himself moving south, then east, toward Denerim; a path he had followed many times on horseback with his father. along the Imperial Highway The thought made him ball his fists in anger and despair and Cat whined up at him from where the Mabari trotted at his feet.

At the first inn they stopped at, deep in the Bannorn and safe enough from Howe's men, Aeden sat silently in the booth with the other recruits until Sereda, the dwarven woman with the wicked claymore, pushed a bowl of stew under his face. He levelled her with a glare that didn't bother her in the slightest.

"We all lost something to get here, Cousland. My younger brother murdered my elder one and framed me for it so he could take the Stone Chair after our father died. Brosca's whole life in Dust Town has no doubt racked up a few losses of his own, along with being forced to leave his sister behind when Duncan conscripted him to save him from the executioner's axe. And the mages lost everything they knew to join the Wardens, and as they tell it, neither are welcome to visit the tower again. You don't have sole ownership on loss, so you may as well eat, or this Howe wins when you die of starvation on the road." She turned her violet eyes away from him and began talking to the elf in a softer voice than she'd used on him and Aeden grunted before spooning mouthfuls of hot stew down his throat. Loathe as was to admit it, the dwarf had a point.


	8. Once Upon an Alienage

**Once Upon an Alienage**

_Anyone who had read the original version will notice very little actually changed with this story, since the city elf is my favourite origin, and I have quite the soft spot for Kallian, so I didn't want to change her much, and it's going to be pretty difficult not constantly writing from her POV. Anyways enjoy my harmless co-opting of Bioware's property._

* * *

There were bells and flowers braided in Kallian Tabris' hair, in some semblance of long forgotten Arlathan marriage custom. The Venedahl loomed above her, the midday sun turning the leaves a brilliant gold-green that matched the eyes her mother, Adaia, had gifted her.

As always with the Alienage there was activity, the elven slum alive with it. There were children nearby playing a game of Humans and Heroes, just as she, Shianni and Soris used to when they were younger. Elva was hollering at her young lad, stopping him before he could join in the fun.

There was a family that she knew lived in one of the Crown owned tenements, packing their things into a rickety wooden cart, bound, apparently, for Ostagar. Across the street from them, Alarith was closing up his shop early for the wedding; her wedding.

Kallian shifted uncomfortably in the tight satin and lace dress she was to wear for her wedding. It was her mother's wedding dress, resized for Kallian's smaller frame. Beneath the luxurious fabric her toes wiggled in her mother's worn old boots, boots she'd worn on the way to Denerim from West Hill to marry Cyrion, Kallian's father.

Along with the green-gold eyes, Kallian had inherited her mother's silver-blonde hair. Valendrian, the Alienage Elder, had told her it was a sign of her mother's Dalish parentage. That the Dalish, in being true to the ways of Arlathan, retained much of their ancient elven traits, strangely coloured eyes and silver or jet black hair that fell straight down the back, long tapered ears poking out from beneath.

And, much to Cyrion's dismay, Kallian had inherited Adaia's tenacity and love for swordplay. Kallian was every bit the spitfire her mother had been and caused her father no end of worries. Perhaps, surmised the young elf, that was why he was so keen to see her married and settled, when Kallian truly wished to just run free.

"There you are, cousin," greeted Soris from behind her, making her jump a little. Her handsome cousin grinned lopsidedly at his little victory. "Did I just startle the great Kallian Tabris? Your rogue senses have diminished of late, cousin. Wedding day jitters?"

"Oh sod off, cocky, well-dressed version of Soris," growled Kallian, fingering one of braids self-consciously. Her cousin was dressed in his late father's Summersday best, the suit a little constrictive over Soris' broader chest. Someone, namely Shianni, had attacked his hair with a brush so that the messy heap of fire red waves hung in tailored order.

"What have you got to be nervous about? Apparently _your_ betrothed is a dream come true," snickered Soris.

"Well, yours sounds like a mouse. Perhaps you will get a cage as a wedding present." Soris guffawed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the tightly packed Alienage tenements.

"You're awful, Kalli, you know that?" Kallian just shot her cousin a sly grin.

"There you are," exclaimed Shianni, her short red hair bouncing with odd plaits dotting the wavy locks. In close behind her were Nola and Carrein, Kallian's….bridesmaids. "Thought you two might have skipped out on us already."

"There's still time," assured Kallian, her green-gold eyes flitting to the gate that separated the Alienage from the rest of Denerim.

"Don't you want to get married?" asked Shianni, her voice laden with envy. "After today you'll be an adult, and married to a handsome blacksmith."

"I'd rather be free," retorted Kallian.

"Running around barefoot through the forests like some barbarian Dalish?" scoffed Soris. "Nowhere near a bath. Maker, you smell bad enough as it is." Kallian punched her cousin in the arm, eliciting a satisfying yelp.

"Why would joining the Dalish be so bad? My _Yarápadae_ was Dalish."

Kallian never got an answer to her question because at that moment some well-dressed human drunkard had grabbed Nola from behind, squeezing her well-endowed chest roughly. The younger girl yelp and broke free of the drunkards grip, seeking shelter behind Soris' hulking form. There were four more similarly dressed drunks around him, laughing at their sport.

"What's the matter?" drawled the man with a sloppy grin plastered on his face. "It's a party, isn't it? Everyone grab a wench."

"Pig," spat Shianni. The man seemed to take a liking to her uncouthness.

"Oh, this one has _spirit_."

"Don't you dare touch her, flat-eared scum," growled Kallian, stepping in between her cousin and the drunk. The man merely grinned cockily at Kallian, eyeing her lewdly.

"Oh, and look, the pretty bride to be. I'm sure your husband would thank me for breaking you in for him." As he leant in, his breath reeking of mead, Kallian's hand balled into a fist and ready to strike, his face suddenly went blank and he fell to the ground with a thud. Behind him stood Shianni, a broken wine bottle in her hand, looking almost as shocked as Kallian.

"Are you mad?" shrieked one of the drunks looking at the two elven women as if they had grown Mabari heads. "That's the Arl of Denerim's son!"

"Oh, Maker," whispered Shianni, dropping the bottle to her feet, her hands shaking.

"Perhaps the Arl should teach his son better manners," retorted Kallian, unfazed. Vaughan was nothing less than a monster if the rumours were true.

"You've a lot of nerves, knife ears," threatened another and Kallian stared him dead in the eyes despite the height difference.

"Please, messers," interjected Soris. "We're celebrating weddings here. There should be no violence this day." One of the other noblemen grumbled in assent and the men slowly made their way out of the Alienage. Soris held in a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding in and turned to his sister and cousin.

Kallian glared at him, eyes like forest coloured daggers while Shianni continued staring at her hands as if they belonged to a stranger.

"Come on, Shianni." Soris put an arm around his sister's shoulders, steering her toward the house they shared with Cyrion and Kallian.

"Are you alright?" asked a deep, unfamiliar voice behind her and Kallian jumped a mile, whirling on the culprit. The handsome blonde elf looked apologetic and held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, Kallian."

"How do you know my name?" Kallian was beyond mad at this point and rearing for a fight. The handsome elf smile, lighting up his pale blue eyes.

"Well I don't see many beautiful elven women with wedding dresses on and marriage bells braided into their hair. My name is Nelaros," he introduced, holding out a hand. Knocked off-kilter Kallian's mouth snapped closed and she offered her back for a shake. Instead Nelaros turned her hand over, planting a soft, chaste kiss in the center of her palm. "Maker bless you."

Kallian felt her cheeks start to burn and her ears turn pink. Perhaps marriage wasn't so bad an idea after all.

Something moved behind Nelaros, catching her attention. Two heavily armoured, dark haired men and two dwarves, a woman in plate and a man in leathers, had entered the Alienage, armed with a Mabari panting at the feet of the younger human. She narrowed her eyes immediately at the handsome human man with dark rings under his blue eyes. Nothing screamed lordling like a Mabari hound.

"Excuse me, Nelaros." The handsome elf watched the beautiful woman as she made her way toward the strangers. The Matchmaker had said his bride was a fiery Dalish beauty, but nothing could have prepared him for the spectacular creature that he would marry. Perhaps he could even tell her about his secret training in warsmithing, she seemed much like a scrapper herself. Nelaros smiled and made his way to the quaintly decorated stage where Valora, his cousin and the bride of Soris, would be waiting.

"I think it would be best if you five move along," greeted Kallian, her green-gold eyes hard like steel as she glared at the men and the hound. She included the Mabari in her total, aware as any of the elves who worked in noble houses that the Mabari were smarter than most men.

"And if we don't, elf?" The younger one had a hard edge to his voice and narrowed his eyes at the blonde girl. Kallian couldn't know it, but she reminded the nobleman too much of someone he'd watch die before his very eyes.

"I don't think you'd really want to find that out, lordling. Not all of us elves are as helpless as you'd like to believe," spat Kallian stepping into the man's personal space to glare at him in the eyes, making herself seem taller than her five feet and six inches. The dwarves man snickered and she turned her hard glare on the square man, eyeing his twin longswords.

"While I admire your bravery, young one," interrupted the older man, his tone and voice nothing but respectful as he stood with arms folded. "We do not seek violence here. I am told there is to be a wedding today, for the daughter of an old friend of mine."

"Ah, Duncan!" greeted Valendrian from the wedding stage. The elven Elder made his way to his old friend, greeting him with a firm wrist clasp and grinning from ear to ear. "I see you've already met Adaia's little spitfire." Duncan's grey eyes smiled at the bemused Kallian as her own green-gold eyes flitted from the beaming Valendrian, amused Duncan and the equally confused young noble.

"You know these shems, Hahren?"

"Not the younger, but this is Warden Commander Duncan of the Ferelden Grey. He was an old friend of your mother, Tabris and tried, quite unsuccessfully, to recruit her into the Wardens." Duncan nodded in sad assent.

"She had just fallen pregnant with you, Lady Tabris, and refused my offer. She wanted you more than anything else in the world. What happened to her was a tragedy." Kallian's hands balled into fists at the memory, of being seven years old again, crying in a bruised ball as her mother fought with four drunk human men with a stolen shortsword. She still remembered when their leader's own blade had caught her mother in the ribs, and the blood red rage that had taken hold of Kallian's young body. She had killed her mother's murderer that day, with his own sword, slashing his throat from ear to ear. Kallian shook her head of morose nostalgia and hardened her jaw.

"The men responsible paid a high price for their sport, Commander." Her voice was clipped and cold as she turned her eyes on the face of the noble and dwarves that followed in Duncan's wake. The nobleman was a handsome human, with soft green eyes and a hard line set in his mouth. The dwarfed woman was round and soft, belying the muscle it would take to wield that claymore strapped to her back and her eyes were as strange as Kallian's own; a deep and vibrant violet. She carried an air of nobility as much as the shemlen. The other dwarf seemed more relaxed than the other two, with dark whiskey coloured eyes and a black tattoo beneath one eye, barely visible against the dark umber of his skin. "And you? You've kept your names to yourselves, strangers."

"I am Aeducan Sereda, my lady," bowed the dwarves woman, one fist over her chest. The other dear didn't bow, but Kallian could see respect in his dark amber eyes.

"Brosca Faren," he grunted.

"I am Aeden Cousland, Lady Tabris," bowed the human and Kallian sneered.

"Do not mock me, lordling."

"Kallian." Valendrian's tone was warning. She felt nine years old again, caught drawing all over her schoolbooks while he taught the children their letters and as she had done then, Kallian looked up at the Elder sheepishly. "I believe you have a wedding to get to."

With a sigh she turned her head to the wedding platform where Soris, Nelaros and his cousin, Valora stood with a Chantry priestess, a crowd gathering at the base. As Kallian moved toward the platform with heavy feet she saw Shianni and her other _bridesmaids_ ascend the stairs to stand at Soris' side. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Kallian followed them up the stairs.

The human Chantry woman smiled warmly at her as she took her place on Soris' other side, looking across the platform to Nelaros who grinned at her making her cheeks warm. _By Andraste's dirty lingerie, why are you blushing, you fool_, chastised Kallian's inner voice and she looked away from Nelaros as Valendrian began to speak.

"We are gathered today, not just to celebrate the joining of these couples, but the ties of kin and kind. We are a proud and free people, but that was not always so." The Hahren sounded like he was about to embark on a lecture of epic proportions and Kallian glanced at Soris by her side.

"Good luck, cousin," she whispered with a small smile, eliciting one of his own for herself.

"You, too, Kalli. Maybe it won't be so bad," added Soris with a shrug.

"Andraste, Bride of the Maker, freed us from the bonds of slavery. As our community grows to encompass Nelaros And Valora Suledin remember that our strength lies in commitment to each other." With that he actually seemed finished and Kallian raised her eyebrows at her cousin as Mother Boann stepped forth with her sweet, serene smile.

"Thank you, Hahren. Now let us begin." Mothr boanna raised her hands, her deep blue eyes on the two couples before her. "In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world and whose name we say the CHant of Light, and Andraste-" She cut off as she heard footsteps behind, turning to see the human nobles from before pushing people out of their way as they climbed the stage steps.

"Milord? This is…an unexpected…surprise," she managed warily, her blue eyes wide as he walked up to her.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mother," chuckled Vaughan, his dark eyes promising danger. "But I'm having a party and we're dreadfully short of female guests." He chuckled darkly as he walked behind Valora, eyeing the women on the stage with a look that made Kallian nauseas.

"Milord, this is wedding!" exclaimed Mother Boann, defensively. Vaughan merely barked with laughter.

"If you want to dress your pets up and have tea parties, that's your business," laughed Vaughan, his voice turning into a threatening growl as he pushed Valora out of the way and stepped into Mother Boann's personal space. "But don't pretend this is a proper wedding."

"Now," started Vaughan, turning his attention and his sly, sadistic smile on the stage. "We're here for a good time, aren't we, boys?"

"Just a good time with the ladies, that's all," laughed one of his friends, and Kallian locked eyes with Shianni, reaching out to grab her hand and give her a squeeze of support.

"I'll take those two," pointed Vaughan toward Nola and Cairren and his lackeys grabbed hold of the screaming girls. "Now, where's the bitch who bottled me?" His eyes searched the gathered elves and he smiled as he saw Shianni standing behind Soris and Kallian. One of his men grabbed her and Shianni struggled, elbowing the man in the stomach.

"Let go of me, you stuffed shirt son of a-" Her struggle only made Vaughan laugh lustfully.

"Oh, I'll enjoy taming her." His dark malicious gaze settle on Kallian and she glared back at the beast who eyes raked over her body, making her want to shudder with disgust. "And see the pretty bride. Ah, yes, such a well formed little thing. I'm sure we all want to avoid further…hmm…unpleasantness?"

"If you touch me, shem, I'll cut your throat myself," sneered Kallian, defiantly and Vaughan chuckled darkly.

"This one has spirit. We are going to have some _fun_." Kallian's world went black.

* * *

"Kalli! Dear Maker, Kalli, please wake up." Shianni's voice was spearing right through Kallian's searing headache, correction, face ache. It felt as if the whole right side of her face was on fire. Kallian opened her eyes slowly, opening and closing her jaw, which sent shooting pain up into her brain and the elven girl groaned.

"Maker guide us. Maker protect us. Maker guide us –"

"Not this again," groaned Shianni rubbing her temples and shooting a glare at Nola who sat on her knees, hands clasped over her chest and praying fervently.

"Ugh," groaned Kallian. "Someone shut her up. I feel like I had a bad night in Alarith's cellar. Where are we?"

"Arl Urien's palace. Vaughan and his men dumped us here to go and prepare for their 'party'," answered Shianni, her voice barely a whisper as she pulled her knees in close to her body.

"This isn't your fault, Shianni. Vaughan is little more than a monster," assured Kallian, moving to wrap her arm around her younger cousin's shoulder.

"Look, those….men will be back soon," interjected Valora, her voice high and squeaky like a mouse, making Kallian wince. "I say we just do what they say and go home and try to forget this ever happened."

"If you think it's that easy Valora, you're either very stupid or very ignorant," snapped Kallian. "No one comes back from Vaughan's 'parties'. Our only chance is to fight, to get out of here and hide in the Alienage." Valora looked taken aback. It was clear to Kallian that the girl had never experienced anything like this before and Kallian could only guess that Highever's nobles were more refined than the uncouth men of Denerim who used the Alienage as their own private brothel.

"Shh, someone's coming," hushed Carrein, her ears twitching in the direction of the door.

"Do nothing until I do," ordered Kallian, stepping in front of her cousin. She had been protecting Shianni from the age of ten, when Soris and Shianni's parents died in 'an unfortunate accident'. Just as Kallian's own mother had. Shianni was only fourteen, not yet old enough to be betrothed as Kallian and Soris at sixteen were.

Five heavily armed men walked into the room, Vaughan's private guards. Nola stood up them, screaming at them to leave her alone. Their commander seemed annoyed by the screaming elf and cut her throat with a knife from his belt without so much as batting his lashes. The other three women around Kallian screamed in horror, while Kallian kept her composure. She had seen people die violently before and she although she could feel sadness in her heart at Nola's senseless death, she pushed it deep down, retreating into the dark calm that always preceded a fight.

"That's the fate that awaits you if you don't come quietly, knife-ears. You two," he gestured at two men behind him. "You take those three to Vaughan's room. If they so much as twitch the wrong way you hit them with the butt of your sword. And you two," this time two other men who straightened up. "You take care and bind the pretty bride. She's the scrapper."

Kallian wanted to chase down Shianni, her cousin throwing a terrified look back at her before one of the soldiers pushed her out the doorway. Now Kallian was left alone, with no weapon, against two men who seemed like they weren't about to rush in taking her to Vaughan.

Kallian snarled, green-gold eyes feral, as the two approached her. Suddenly, Kallian heard a gargling shout of a dying man from the doorway and a guard fell down, a crossbow bolt embedded in his throat. Standing in the doorway stood Soris with a shocked look on his face as the two other guards turned on him, laughing.

"What is one elf with a stolen bow and sword gonna do?" taunted one as he moved toward Soris. Quick as lightning Kallian's cousin slid the sword across the ground, under the guard's legs and in one swift, graceful movement Kallian picked it up and slid down into a ready stance, smiling now. The two guards' faces fell.

"Oh sod-" was all the first guard could get out before Kallian leapt, quick as a hunting tigress and removed his head from it's shoulders. The second fell just a few seconds later, his innards falling out under the sharp touch of her blade. Blood sprayed over Kallian, warm against her skin, staining both her silver hair and white wedding dress.

The blood red haze fell over Kallian's vision as she made her way through the palace, killing every human she found. She was covered in a dozen small surface wounds, her reflexes were far too quick for heavy, lumbering humans and her dress was tattered, beyond repair. A small part of her mind mourned the loos of her mother's wedding dress, but another part of it smiled that she was decorating it with the blood of humans so like those who'd cut down her mother eleven years ago.

She moved past the barracks when she heard Nelaros' voice, ears picking up his distinctive Highever accent. Opening the door, Kallian was just in time to see the Guard-Captain who had killed Nola lop the handsome elf's head in one clean swing of his sword.

As she saw Nelaros' body hit the ground she hollered, dancing death with her blades. Giving nothing and taking everything. Kallian briefly looked down at the body of the man who was to be her husband. She couldn't feel any real sadness for his loss. He was a stranger to her, but she was sad that in his death an entire future was wiped away from her life.

Kallian bent down and plucked his wedding ring from his finger. It was too large for her ring finger and so she slid it onto the chain she wore around her neck, where her mother's wedding ring sat against her breast; a collection of rings from those who loved her enough to die for her. Inside the plain gold band Kallian read _Uth Na Nehn E Lath_: Forever Your Joy And Love.

Soris was watching Kallian warily as she moved through the rooms of the Arl's palace, killing every man she saw. She let the women and elves run, but no man was safe from her blade or her hunt for Vaughan. Soris had to admit he was somewhat frightened of his beloved cousin at this point, her wedding dress torn in places by a lucky blade. The blood from her myriad minor wounds mingled with that of the men she murdered, her once white dress dripping crimson all over the palace carpets. Most disturbing was the feral smile she wore, like a wolf's, every time another soldier fell to her dual daggers. Kallian had gone away and someone else was inside her body.

Once Kallian reached Vaughan's rooms she could hear Shianni's screams, her cousin's sobs tearing right through her chest. The small elven girl threw her body against the door to no avail. She screamed back, slamming her fists against the door.

Suddenly, it fell back with a kick from an equally enraged Soris, flying off its hinges and knocking a few of the noblemen to the ground. Vaughan was on the bed, nude, above a writhing, screaming Shianni. Her dress was torn, bruises and cuts lined her exposed body. Blood trickled down from her wrists where ropes burned into the flesh and between her legs.

Kallian gutted the closest noble before grabbing Vaughan by his hair and throwing him against the stone floor. Stunned the nobleman staggered to his knees, hands up.

"Please. Wait. I'll make you a deal," he begged, but Kallian just sneered. She was far too gone in her burning rage. She threw her daggers to one side and grabbed the sop by his hair snapping his neck back so his brown eyes looked into her green-gold ones.

"All I want, shem is to hear your screams. You will know pain before you die." She accented the last word with a punch to his jaw, revelling in the crack of broken bone. She pulled free a knife from her mother's boot and pressed the sharp blade against one of the man's eyes. His screams echoed off the walls for a solid twenty minutes before Kallian, bored and disgusted with her sport, finally cut his throat.

"K-Kalli," stammered a shaken Shianni, now unbound and grasping at the remnants of her dress. Kalli wrapped Shianni in a cloak she'd found, holding the sobbing girl against her chest. She stroked her damp, red braids and murmured words of comfort.

"Sweet, Anni, my, sweet, sweet, Anni," cooed Kallian as Soris ducked into the back room to retrieve Valora and Cairren. He fought his own tears at the battered state of his little sister, wrapped up in a bloodied cloak and Kallian's crimson stained arms.

"We have to go, and you can't wear that dress, Kalli," urged Soris, and Kallian nodded, looked down at her younger cousin.

"Just grab me a cloak, I'll throw it over the dress. We'll leave."

Cyrion was sitting on a bench, his head in his hands. This was supposed to to be a day of joy, celebrating the marriage of his only daughter and his sister's eldest son. Instead; tragedy. He knew that if Soris and Nelaros weren't successful he would have lost his whole family. No one ever came back from Bann Vaughan's parties.

"They approach," announced the young human, Aeden, relief colouring his voice. Cyrion looked up, not daring himself to hope.

They staggered into the Alienage, Soris, Shianni and Kallian covered in blood and wounds and wearing fine cloaks to hide their crime. Shianni was clinging to her brother who held her like a babe in his arms. Valora and Carrein followed behind them, shaken, but unhurt. Relief coursing through his veins like some potent drug, Cyrion wrapped his gore splattered daughter in his arms tightly, thanking the Creators or the Maker, or whoever was listening for bringing his daughter home to him.

"Take Shianni and the others to Carilla's home. She will tend to them," ordered Valendrian, softly to Soris. The broad shouldered elf nodded silently and made his way to the home of the Alienage healer.

"Kallian, lethalan, what happened?" She looked up at her father, still shaking with rage against Vaughan, against all of the Denerim nobility. That shem had stolen a piece of Shianni, had broken her, and Cyrion could see that in his daughter's eyes, as expressive as Adaia's and he merely nodded.

"Guards," warned one of the assembled elves and Kallian's back stiffened as she turned to see Sergeant Kylon, flanked by ten other men, entering the Alienage his face a mixture of boredom and disgust. As far as he was concerned whoever killed Bann Vaughan did Ferelden a public service, but Arl Urien would demand blood, and the guards' duty was not to promote justice, as Kylon had once believed as a green, idealistic recruit, but to act as the nobles' personal army, a place to hide their illegitimate sons.

"Bann Vaughan and the entire palace of Arl Urien have been slaughtered. I have been sent here to apprehend those responsible." Without so much as a thought about it, Kallian stepped forward, her wedding dress still covered with the Bann's lifeblood.

"I did it." Sergeant Kylon knew she would not have acted alone, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I do not envy your fate, elf, but I admire your courage. In coming forth you have saved your Alienage from a great deal of pain. You will come with me to Fort Drakon to wait upon Arl Urien's return from Amaranthine, and his judgement." Kallian merely nodded, surrendering her weapons to the guards. Soris and Shianni would be safe. That was all that mattered. Soris still had a wife, afterall. Kallian's life was all, but over anyway. No one would marry her for fear of some sort of curse.

"Sergeant," interrupted Duncan. "If I may, I am recruiting for the Wardens. The Blight that rises in the south threatens us all, and this young woman has shown exceptional skill, loyalty and determination. I'm sorry to say that I invoke the Right of Conscription upon her. She will be released into my custody." Sergeant sighed, rubbing his forehead. This was going to cause no end of troubles.

"I cannot deny you your rights, Warden-Commander. I merely ask that you have her out of the city by nightfall." Duncan nodded his assent and the guards left. Shell-shocked, Kallian merely gawked at Duncan.

"Gather your things, child. We have a long journey ahead of us."

As Kallian followed the Grey Warden out of the city she felt as though her stomach had fallen out from beneath her and she turned once more to look at the gates of Denerim, still bustling with travellers and merchants. Beside her was the dark skinned dwarf and he looked up at her with understanding in those honey eyes.

"It's hard, elf, but there's nothing else for it," shrugged the man, his nonchalant gesture belying the compassion in his softly spoken words.

"I don't know anything outside of those walls," whispered Kallian, allowing the fear that clawed up her throat out for just a moment.

"Ach, I know Bronto shit about anything outside of Orzammar," added Falen with a smile. "We can figure out this crazy ceiling-less world together, elfy." He slapped her on the back good-naturedly and Kallian managed a small, almost indiscernible smile for the dual longsword wielding dwarf in black leathers.

Sitting by the campfire that night, a few hours walk south of Denerim Kallian tried to comb out the clotted blood and matter from her long silver tresses to no avail. Such a seemingly trivial task angered the already frail and tense elf and without further ceremony she took a knife from out of her boot and tore at the silver locks. Faren stared up at her in shock at the the sudden rage as she sawed through the silver hair, leave short spikes in her wake that barely fell to her ears.

Kallian threw the handful of knotted, blood splattered hair into the campfire and let out an annoyed sigh.

"You...ahhh...want some help cleaning that up, elfy? You'll look mighty ridiculous with what looks like a bowl cut," offered the dwarf cautiously. Kallian glared at the stout man for a second before her anger faded, as quick as it had come and handed the dwarf her knife.

"Just don't nick the ears, Stone-boy," warned Kallian and Faren barked with laughter as he took the blade, cleaning up the horrid mess she had made of her hair. He had cut Rica's hair when they were younger and one miss-cut would mean a beating from his, then, much larger older sister. He had a practiced hand with the art and sure enough he didn't nick Kalli's ears even once as he trimmed back the uneven tufts into a cut that made Kallian look like a Chantry altar-boy, but that she found she rather liked.

"Not an elf of the Denerim Alienage anymore, dwarfy. Now I look like a Grey Warden," smiled Kallian. "Thank you. At least something not entirely awful happened today."

* * *

_T/N: Yarápadae: Mother's father_


	9. Seth'lin

**Seth'lin**

_Ugh...writing men. This at least delves into my enjoyment of languages and trying to make sense of the not entirely well designed DA Elven language. Honestly, I wish they'd just been boring and kept to Tolkien's linguistics; he had rules and structure and it made sense! Regardless, I hope you __enjoy this more than I enjoyed writing it. Once again, I own nothing._

* * *

Theron Mahariel had always loved the Brecilian Forest. There was something in the way the trees spoke to the wind, the wildlife communicated with the earth and the ever present sense of power that had enchanted the Dalish hunter from a young age. He wasn't Ferelden born, being born in the western reaches of the Free Marches, but his first memories were of Ferelden and this ancient expanse of enchanted forest.

Beside him his _Uthallin, _'forever-blood' was breathing in the almost supernaturally quiet way of all Dalish hunters. They had gone through with the Rite of Uthllan a year ago. It was conducted in much the same way as a Dalish marriage; they exchanged Vallaslin and adopted one another into their families as blood kin.

"Can you see them, _lethallin_?" whispered Tamlen softly enough that only Theron's elven hearing could pick out his voice amongst the breeze. Theron sighted down his arrow shaft at the three shemlen males who were camped ahead.

"Time to let them know they are trespassing on Elvhenan land?" Tamlen gave a terse nod and Theron let loose his arrow, the shaft imbedding itself in the centre of the shemlen camp. The three human men jumped to the feet in a chorus of shouts, searching futilely for the source of the arrow.

"It seems you are trespassing, shems," sneered Tamlen as he revealed himself from out of the shadow of the tree. Theron, too, stepped out of the shadows, his bow trained on all three men who now looked terrified at the sight of two Dalish hunters, tattooed in mirror images of Andruil across their faces.

"Sorry, we did not know the Dalish were camped here," explained one man, hands up with palms open.

"Such a pathetic race," sneered Tamlen, his blades drawn, brandishing them threateningly. "It's hard to believe we were driven from a homeland by these."

"This forest is ours," growled Theron, his finger itching to release the arrow trained on the men. He didn't give in to the temptation, however, even as Atisha, his wolf growled from his feet, the humans eyeing her and her twin, Tamlen's Fen, with fear.

"You shems are like vermin. We can't trust you not to make mischief," threatened Tamlen, Fen growling fiercely at his side.

"_What say you, brother of my blood? Should we let the quicklings live, or send them to their Maker?_" asked Tamlen in Elvish. Theron glanced at the three men. They looked poor and carried no arms. They were probably just simple farmers, not a danger to the clan.

"We came to find treasure we were told of, but were chased away by demons."

"Treasure? In these forests? So you're more akin to thieves than actual bandits," scoffed Tamlen. "I have never heard of ruins in this part of the forest. Lies."

"I-I have proof," squeaked one man, stepping forth with what looked like a miniature statue of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. "I-I found this, j-just inside the entrance." He handed the statue to Tamlen.

"This is written Elvish," gasped Tamlen, drawing Theron's mossy green eyes to his brother.

"T-There's more in the ruins."

"Yes, ser. The ruins just a little further than here," piped up another.

"Elvhenan ruins?" Tamlen's tone became hostile at once. Humans had no right plundering Elvhenan ruins. They belonged to the Dalish.

"I-I don't know, ser," stammered the shem, taking a step back warily. "Please, just let us go and we'll show you where the ruins are." Tamlen turned to Theron with a dangerous glint in his eye. After a band of shemlen bandits had raped Tamlen's sister, impregnating her and forcing her to take her own life rather than birth their abomination, Tamlen had a deep-seated hatred for all humankind that bordered on sadism. It pained Theron to see his brother so warped.

"_These quicklings are harmless, brother of my blood. Let them guide us, then leave. They are no danger to us, or the clan._" Tamlen scrunched his nose in disgust at his blood-brother's human sympathies. They were all the same, raping, looting, murderous bastards and had proven that time and time again through history. Why keep a dog that was feral? It would be a mercy to put it down.

"_Brother of my blood_," warned Theron, his forest green eyes stern. He was older than Tamlen, and thus the younger had to submit to his word. With a sigh and a glare for the shemlen Tamlen nodded.

"Take us to these ruins and then run, shems. Do not let us catch you wandering our paths again."

Theron kept his budding excitement hidden beneath his stony exterior, but Atisha could sense it in him, bounding about his feet like a pup. Tamlen shot him a glare and he gestured for the wolf to calm herself and she whimpered to have disappointed him.

They didn't need the shemlen guides for long, letting the men run off, too afraid to even look back at the pair of hunters as they stood beneath the high arching ceiling of an Elvhenan arch imbedded in the cliffside.

It was, indeed, the most amazing sight Theron had ever seen, a nearly intact ruin, human, but with Elvish design. He could feel his heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird against his ribs and one look at his blood-brother's face told him that Tamlen felt the same.

Magic. Theron could feel it coursing through the ancient elms in this place, could feel the unnerving touch of the Fade. His mother had been the Keeper before Marethari, and as such, Theron had a sensitivity for magics, especially the ancient Elvhenan magic, lost to history.

"Be careful, lethallin," counselled Theron. "The Veil has been torn. This place is _Setheneran_."

"We will be careful, _lethallin_, but we will bring back some history for our clan. Keeper Marethari could come back here and sew the Veil closed with Merrill's help, for sure." At Theron's unsure expression Tamlen sighed. "Come on, let's at least see what's there. How dangerous could it be?" Theron merely nodded, keeping his worry off his face. The Keeper would be very happy if they brought back a piece of Elvhenan history.

They were cautious as they walked, silent as wraiths, through the dimly lit complex. Theron's bow was drawn tightly, ready to loose, while Tamlen stalked the corridors like a wolf, his daggers in his hands. The shems hadn't lied about demons, but they hadn't mentioned the undead, or the darkspawn, for that matter.

Theron was calm as an ancient tree as he loosed arrow after arrow at the foul, twisted creatures. Their blood stank like rotting corpses and he tried to target kill points that didn't spray as much, just to keep his stomach settled.

Tamlen was so fast that even Theron couldn't keep tabs on his movements at all times. His blades were quick as he danced around the beasts, slicing at tendons and bleed-points: Death of a Thousand Cuts.

"Creators, do you see this?" asked Tamlen after dispatching a walking skeleton with swift blades. There was a great statue of Mythal, with dragon wings made of beaten gold and a staff in her outstretched hands. "Back in Arlathan there would have been hundreds of these statues, but this place doesn't look elven. The architecture is human. Why would there be a statue of Mythal here?"

"Perhaps these ruins belonged to a human settlement from the time of Arlathan," thought Theron out loud. "But we are nowhere near Arlathan. How would they have gotten this statue?"

"We must have lived in other places, too," suggested Tamlen. "Even if elves didn't live here, the architects knew of our gods. How?"

"Perhaps we traded with the humans before the Imperium and the Fall," shrugged Theron, but Tamlen merely glared at his brother's suggestion. "Let's move on."

The furthest room was infested with the darkspawn, led by a rabid Bereskarn, a Blight sick bear and a dangerous foe. Theron's arrows weren't enough for the small horde and he had to rely as much on his quick reflexes to dodge incoming blows as he did on the bow in his hands. He couldn't see Tamlen, only Fen as the beast and Atisha both tore the spawn apart, fighting with as much ferocity as their masters.

Finally the frightening Bereskarn fell, Tamlen atop its dying body, stabbing it fiercely with his Dar'Misu until the beast finally stilled. Theron let out a heavy, ragged breath, lowering his aching arms. He had never fought so long or so constantly before and his arms shook with the effort of holding his bow up.

"_Fenedhis_," cursed Tamlen, wiping the black, slimy blood off his blades and onto the sparse fur of the Bereskarn. Fen'Harel take you to the Void."

"Why are there darkspawn in a _Setheneran_? What calls them to a place of waking dreams such as this?" asked Theron as he shakily drank from the waterskin at his belt before passing it to his brother.

"I'm not one for the higher mysteries, _lethallin_. I leave that to you and the Keeper," panted Tamlen, throwing back the cold spring water with gusto, wiping his mouth as he handed the waterskin back. "We should move on. I wasn't expecting this place to feel…quite like this. I want to get out of these damned ruins quickly and get back to camp. Maybe one of the other hunters found food. I could do with a large leg of venison right about now." Theron nodded with a warm smile, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

The next room held an even bigger surprise for the Dalish hunters.

"By the Creators," whispered Tamlen, reverently.

An Eluvian. Theron thought he would never live to see one of those ancient mirrors that the elves of Elvhenan had used to communicate with one another throughout their vast empire. It was simply beautiful, but at the same time there was a dark presence about it that made Theron's stomach flip over.

"Can you _feel_ that?" whispered Tamlen, walking toward the Eluvian. "I think it knows we're here. We should take a closer look."

"Tamlen, don't!" yelled Theron, moving toward his blood-brother as Tamlen reached out to touch the opalescent surface of the Eluvian. At Tamlen's touch the surface rippled like water, turning a dark and forbidding purple. Tamlen leant closer, entranced by what he saw.

"Do you see this, _lethallin_? It's like some underground city. It looks elvish," he added softly, leaning closer, his hand sinking beneath the surface of the mirror. "There's some kind of blackness."

"It sees me." Tamlen's voice was panicked. "I can't look away!"

"TAMLEN!" roared Theron as dark arms emerged from the Eluvian and grabbed Tamlen's arms. Tamlen looked back at his blood-brother, but his eyes were all white and the voice he spoke was not his own. A deeper voice, raspy with age spoke over Tamlen's voice.

"_Farewell, brother of my blood. My destiny beckons, as does yours_." With that he was pulled into the mirror, Theron screaming as he ran toward the evil creation, but it suddenly exploded, throwing the Dalish hunter against a far wall and turning the world black.

* * *

A soft, humming voice pervaded the darkness; a tune Theron recognised. He felt his lips, dry and cracked begin to move.

"_Melava inan enansal_," whispered a soft voice under Kallian's hands, in tune with her soft humming. Shocked, Kallian fought the urge to remove her hands, to yell for Neria, who was sleeping nearby after exhausting herself healing the Dalish man's fractured skull. Kallian had been replacing the bandages over his small surface wounds that didn't need Neria's healing. Eyelids shifted, but the Dalish man continued singing softly under his breath.

"_Ir su aravel to elvaral, u na emma abelas_." Slowly his eyes flickered open, a soft forest green to gaze into Kallian's green-gold ones.

Theron blinked, once, twice, staring into the naked, pretty face above him, straight, short silver hair tucked behind small elven ears. She smiled at him, a soft, warm smile that made him see a faint scar by her chin. Perhaps a childhood accident.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," greeted the girl in a soft voice. Realising she was staring the strange elf averted her gaze, tucking an errant silver strand of hair behind her ear. "We didn't expect you to wake so soon. Not after that knock," she added with a sympathetic gaze his way before turning her eyes back onto a wound on his wrist.

Knock? Then it was as if the dam broke and memories came rushing into Theron's head so fast it burned. The ruins. The demons. The darkspawn. The Eluvian. Tamlen. TAMLEN! Theron shot up into a seated position before dizziness took over and he fell back down, groaning.

"Woah, there," soothed the elven girl, like she was talking to a spooked halla and Theron narrowed his eyes at the girl.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Kallian Tabris. I'm a Grey Warden recruit. Warden-Commander Duncan was taking us to the Sabrae clan in this forest when he…heard…something," Kalli tried to explain. They had been walking along, Kallian grilling Neria and Duncan for all the information the pair had on the Dalish. All she had was the language hammered into her by her mother and the Hahren, but Neria had read books all her life about the Dalish, and Duncan was actually friends with a few of the Ferelden clans.

Then, suddenly he turned his head mid-sentence as if he had heard something in the trees and taken off at a full sprint. When they had got to the collapsing ruin he hadn't even had a second thought before taking off into the crumbling cave, Aeden following him. The two humans had come out, dragging the Dalish man and Neria had gotten to work. Once it was clear he was out of the woods, so to speak, the mage had all, but collapsed on the bedroll Daylen had laid out for her, the others beginning to set up camp.

Kallian who knew a little about herbal remedies had taken over looking at the other wounds on Theron, none of them life-threatening, but Duncan wore a concerned scowl just the same. Fidgeting under Theron's hard stare, Kallian went about checking the rest of his bandages, cleaning his wounds and reapplying poultices and fresh bandages humming the tune of Suledin all over again.

"Do you even know the words, flat-ear?" he finally snapped, with a dark glare sent at the little elf. She flinched, cheeks flushing scarlet.

"Not anymore. Just the tune. My mother used to sing it to me. She told me it was an old Dalish song about the constant search for a home." Kallian looked down at the tall, muscular elf with masked green-gold eyes and Theron was taken aback.

"Was your mother one of the Elvhenan, or just a _pil'arelan_?" he retorted, surprised at the hard edge of his voice. He sounded more like Tamlen than himself. Kallian glared at him, puffing up at the Dalish insult against her mother.

"My mother was _half_-Dalish. Her father was a Keeper who abandoned his clan, disgusted at their self-righteousness. He fell in love with a _flat-ear_ in West Hills, picking up a trade in the city and fathering a family. She died when I was seven, protecting me," she added with tenacity. "Well, your bandages are clean, and your wounds are healing. You're welcome. You should thank Neri, too, the other _flat-ear_ for sewing your sodding skull back together."

With that she stormed off, muttering obscenities under her breath about stuck up, haughty, elfier-than-thou asshats. Kallian's angry muttering drew the attention of a dark skinned human male with a dark beard and hair pulled off his face in a ponytail.

"It seems you are awake, and making friends already," chuckled the older man. Theron narrowed his eyes at the man. "I am Warden-Commander Duncan, and you are of the Sabrae clan, hunter?"

Theron's eyes widened. Grey Wardens were highly respected, even among the Dalish. The last Warden to kill an Archdemon had been Dalish after all, a Hahren named Garahel. They lived their lives apart from the world as the Dalish did, and as devoted to their duty of ridding the world of darkspawn as the Keepers to their's of rebuilding the long lost lore of ancient Arlathan.

"_Andaran atish'an_, Grey Warden," managed Theron and the man, Duncan, smiled as he passed the hunter a waterskin.

"Drink and rest, hunter. We will move tomorrow and find your clan."

Sleep was restless as Tamlen haunted Theron's dreams, always just out of reach. When he awoke to the grey light of the early morning Theron felt more tired than if he had been up all night chasing wild halla. There was another elven girl, with the same white blonde hair, but hers curled down her back and her eyes were the same pale blue as the early morning sky. She smiled in relief at him, sitting down beside him cross legged in her long robes.

"It's good to see someone…after Highever, it's good to see someone actually recover. I'm Neria Surana, a Spirit Healer of the Circle," smiled the sweet girl. "Duncan sent me to see if you were able to walk. We're leaving for the Dalish camp today, and if you can't walk I'm sure Aeden and Dayle can take turns helping to carry you," she added, trying to be helpful. Seeing two shemlens with dark hair, one with eyes of dark amber, and the other's as green as Mahariel's own, he grunted in annoyance.

By Andruil, he would damned well walk. No Dalish hunter would allow himself to be carried into camp by humans.

"I'll be fine," he grumbled, forcing himself to stand. He ignored the way the world tipped and swayed around him, but Neria just sighed in defeating, allowing the Dalish men to walk somewhat unsteadily, Daylen and Aeden watching him cautiously from the rear guard in case he should fall. Faren and Kallian walked up ahead, directly behind Duncan, chatting quietly to one another, and Sereda walked beside Neria, quiet as her wide violet eyes drank in the vibrant surface world.

Theron kept silent, his trained eyes watching the recruits carefully, cataloguing their behaviour. Tabris, the flat-ear who had cleaned his bandages never looked back at him or the two shemlens that followed behind. She seemed tense, like a thicket of thistles, all thorns, twisted around one another, curling around a blade - _Nanan'Mi_. Sometimes her green-gold eyes glanced back to Neria, a look crossing her face as if she were concerned about the other elf. Neria for her part was serene, even if she was clumsy, making as much noise as the two humans and the dwarven woman as she traipsed through the Brecillian forest. Theron could feel the prickle of a Fade being around her and he wondered briefly if the spirit boded well or ill for the young elf, for her to be _Setheneran_ onto herself. Her dwarven companion was just as silent, but her demeanour, much like her footsteps was like the stone dwarves claimed descent from, rather than the cool breeze of the elven mage she walked with. The darker dwarven man was _Banal'ras_ and sometimes Theron's eyes just slid right off the man, making the hunter watch the shadowy _durgen'lin_ even more closely. The two humans behind him were both _Fae'naren_, the one in the robes of a mage was like a furnace, his mana easily noticeable to Theron's heightened senses. He burned, where the other man in polished chainmail glowed like candlelight or a small campfire.

Theron wondered how these strange people had caught the Warden's attention. It wasn't his place to question the decisions of the Wardens in their recruitment; it had nothing to do with him or his people. Still, he wondered what great deeds two shems, two flat-ears and two _durgen'len_ ould have accomplished to receive the honour of a place among the fabled Grey Wardens.

By the time the group had reached the Dalish camp, Theron was near exhaustion, collapsing in a puddle of weary bones and flesh at the feet of the hunters who greeted them. This time, Tamlen did not race through his sleeping mind, and Theron only saw darkness.

* * *

_A/N: Just some quick translations for anyone who's interested. Most of the words are from the wikia on the Elven language. Thing's I didn't have words for I adopted from Tolkien's Quenya, because I'm a dork like that, and made them to sound as thought they fit DA Elvish._

_Seth'lin - thin-blood_

_lethallin - brother/clans-mate (m)_

_Uthallin - blood-brother_

_Atisha - peace_

_Fen - wolf_

_Setherenan - literally 'tenuous place of waking dreams' or a place where the Veil is thin_

_Melava inan enansal, __Ir su aravel to elvaral, u na emma abelas - Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer, when alone within (from Suledin)_

_Pil'arel(-en/-in/-an) - theft (theives/male thief/female thief)_

_Andaran atish'an - a formal greeting, literally "I dwell in this place, a place of peace"_

_Nanen'Mi/Nanin'Mi/Nanan'Mi (pl/m/f) - a person who has made themselves a weapon, literally "vengeance-blade"_

_Banal'ras - shadow_

_Fae'naren/Fae'narin/Fae'naran (pl/m/f) - people of fire, burning and determined_

_Durgen'len/Durgen'lin/Durgen'lan (pl/m/f) - children of the stone, dwarves_


	10. Era'elgar

**Era'elgar**

_Time for some Neria sweetness before we start moving the recruits Ostagar. She's a bit of bleeding heart, but she's also a precious cinnamon roll that I love. ANyway, I hope you enjoy my blathering_

* * *

Neria sat by the fire, watching Kallian carefully as the other elven woman watched the flames as they danced around the logs, pointedly not looking at the Dalish who stared openly at them. Their stares seemed to affect Kallian more than Neria, the other girl's shoulders hunched up as she pulled at the grass by her feet. Maybe she had dreamt of meeting the Dalish, living in the Denerim Alienage. Maybe Neria was just used to the stares now, after six weeks on the road and being gawked at by the farmers, merchants and villagers who made a sign against the evil eye when they laid eyes on her and her staff. With a sigh, the small elven rogue leant back on her hands, stretching her feet out toward the warmth of the fire. She turned, calculating golden eyes regarding the elven mage beside her.

"They bother you," whispered Neria, her soft voice almost lost to the crackling of the fire. She sat with her knees pulled up under her chin.

"I know they do." Kallian sighed. What a pair they were; two elves growing up with vastly different lives and still marked by the same things, thought Neria. Imprisoned for an accident of birth: Neria to the Circle, Kallian to the Alienage. Both wishing for an escape, maybe to find the Dalish like so many elves before them, hoping for a better life among their own. _And by the Maker what do we find, but more resentment, less acceptance, and dashed childhood fantasies,_ thought Neria grimly. The Dalish seemed more accepting of her, with her staff. Here it wasn't a mark of evil or darkness, but a celebrated gift.

"They don't matter," grumbled Kallian as she fiddled with a blade of grass, twirling it around her fingers. "We're Grey Warden recruits. They can sneer all they want, nothing changes that." Neria smiled at the younger elf beside her, making Kallian smile in return.

"You have a knack for saying the right things, Kallian," smiled Neria and Kallian chuckled mirthlessly at that, shaking her head.

"First time anyone's said that to me. My mouth's gotten me into more trouble than my ears. And, please, just Kalli. Only _padae_ calls me Kallian, and even then, only when he's angry," she added with a sad, homesick smile. Neria reached out a cool, soft hand and entwined her fingers with Kallian's, giving her hand a squeeze.

"I want to say it gets easier; leaving everything behind. It's been over a month since Daylen and I left the Circle and there isn't a day that goes by that something reminds me of the tower and I miss it all over again; Templars and all." Kallian nodded sadly.

"I was lucky. I had Dayle, at least. I'm not all alone in this, and there's someone who has those same memories, someone I can relive them with around the campfire or on long, dull days walking through Ferelden. Everyone else….well, you all came alone, and with so many more personally difficult reasons for being recruited."

"How'd you get recruited, Neria?" The mage withdrew her hand and let out a shuddering breath as she stared back into the fire.

"I helped a friend, and he betrayed us and everything we ever believed in. He asked Dayle and I to help him escape the tower, saying the Templars were going to make him Tranquil, turn him into an unfeeling husk, with no magic, no dreams, no love. He promised us…he promised me that the Templars had no reason to make him Tranquil. He lied."Neria's voice turned to ice on the last word and Kallian didn't ask any more on the matter. The two women just stared into the fire, trying to forget their own hurts.

Past the fire Neria saw the fabric of the Keeper's aravel shift and the Dalish hunter they had rescued two days ago climbed out of the caravan-like construct, rubbing his eyes wearily. He seemed tired still as he talked briefly with the man who had been stationed outside the aravel before the guard took off across the camp at a sprint to the Keeper, an aged mage named Marethari, from where she sat eating fruits with a flighty little thing that was apparently her First. She watched through the dance of the flames as the Keeper consoled what looked like to be a grieving hunter as he dipped his head onto her shoulder.

"Looks like Mahariel has been told, then," murmured Neria, sadly and Kallian looked at her companion, eyebrows raised. "I didn't notice it when I was healing his fractured skull…I was so exhausted…but the hunter, Mahariel, he's sick."

"With what? A fatal case of self-righteous huffing?" The corners of Neria's mouth twitched, but her pale eyes were so solemn that Kallian rethought her words.

"He's contracted the Blight," whispered Neria and Kallian's head snapped back to the elven man as he managed to pull a stoic mask of composure over his face, wiping away the tears that streaked over his tattooed and sun darkened faced. Neria watched as the girl grappled with something internally, a look of both sympathy and loathing mixing across her sun kissed face. Neria's eyes looked over at the hunter, wondering what he had done to evoe such contradictory emotions from her companion. Neria turned her eyes back to the fire as Mahariel looked over at the two elven women by the fire. She didn't watch the hunter as he walked through the camp to find the doe-eyed mageling, Merril, the Keeper's First. He was gone before Neria pulled her eyes away from the dancing flames and a Dalish man with no tattoos was standing nearby, staring openly at Kallian.

"_Ma serannas_, but do I know you?" asked Pol, his soft brown eyes curious. "I feel like I've seen your face before."

"Its me, Pol," sighed Kallian as she rose stiffly to greet the elf ropily. "Kallian Tabris."

"Kallian? Cyrion's daughter? By the Creators you look…different," recovered Pol, flashing her an apologetic smile as he gestured to her much shorter hair. "You were getting married, last thing I heard. What happened?" Both the elven man and Neria flinched as a shadow passed over Kallian's face and her shoulders tensed at the memories.

"It doesn't matter now. I'm a Grey Warden recruit, along with Neria, here," Kallian gestured to the elven mage who rose with far more grace than the city elf had and smiled welcomingly at the stranger.

"She grew up in the Alienage, too, before the Templars took her to the Circle."

"_Andaran atish'an_," greeted Pol with a sort of clumsy bow. "The arts of the Elder Ones is far too rare among the Elvhen." Neria just smiled and shook her head.

"I'm hardly an _Olor'lan_ come again, ser. I am a simple mage, no more astounding than a well trained swordsman or archer." Pol looked like he wished to argue the point, but Neria raised a hand to stall him.

"Anyway, I need to see my friend, Daylen and ensure he isn't accidentally desecrating sacred sites with his foolishness. Will you be alright, Kalli?" asked Neria, turning her pale eyes to the younger woman, the look careful.

"I'll be fine. Thank you, for sitting with me." Neria just smiled and shrugged.

"Beats sitting alone," she smiled before walking off in the direction of the recruit tents where Duncan had them make camp before he had set out to return to those ruins and scout for any more darkspawn.

Neria left Kallian to reacquaint herself with the other city elf, and made her way to the Warden encampment where Daylen was laughing at some jest Brosca had made. She and the dwarf had come to some sort of accord after Highever and Neria felt as though she had earned the man's grudging respect. They would never be easy companions, of course, they were both too uncomfortable with the other, but things were less awkward now.

Still, Neria didn't really want to intrude and she wondered if maybe she should seek out Aeden as she was reminded of that horrible night at the castle. He was a man who could do with a lot of healing. He wasn't hard to find, sitting just outside the clearing the Dalish had camped in, surrounded by the tall trees of the Brecilian Forest. He was staring unseeingly at the trees, his Mabari pawing at his boots with sad dark eyes.

Neria didn't have to worry about startling the man as she approached him. Even in the soft soled shoes of the Circle she was loud. Sneaking would never be the mage's forte.

"Hi, Aeden. How are you holding up?" asked Neria as she folded her legs beneath her to sit beside him gracefully. The man looked down at her with red rimmed eyes, dried tears had streaked his face and he chuckled embarrassed as he rubbed the tears away.

"Badly, as you can see." Neria's heart panted with sympathy and she wrapped her arms around the man without a second thought. She felt him shudder as he wrapped his own arms around her waist and sobbed quietly into her hair for some time. Neria stroked the short black hair at the back of his yead soothingly, letting him get it all out.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Aeden as he finally pulled away from her shame-faced.

"There's nothing to apologise for, Aeden," assured Neria with a sad smile. "I cried all the way to Orzammar and even a few days after. Daylen's robes were soaked. It's my turn now. Not to compare our experiences," she added, hastily.

"I thought I had gotten better in Denerim," sighed Aeden, looking away from her as he ran a hand over Cat's head. "But as we get closer to Ostagar….I…"

"You worry about your brother," finished Neria softly. She felt her stomach turn at the thought herself as she put herself in the man's shoes. It wouldn't be a pleasant task, to tell his brother what happened in Highever. She wasn't sure she would be able to do it herself.

"How do you tell someone their whole….that their wife, their child….how do you tell them….that," finished Aeden morosely.

"He won't blame you, Aeden-"

"I would!" shouted Aeden in protestation and Neria leant back instinctively. The anger fizzled quickly and his shoulders slumped again. "I do."

"Aeden-"

"Don't say it wasn't my fault. I should have saved them," murmured Aeden and Neria felt her own eyes prick with tears.

"It isn't anyone's fault, but Howe's," said Neria with more vehemence than she intended. "Your brother will see that; that Howe is the real person at blame here."

"How do you know, Neria? I have to tell him….I have to tell him I couldn't save his wife….his son…that our parents are dead." Neria fell silent. SHe didn't know. She didn't know Fergus Cousland, not like Aeden did. Perhaps, at first he _would_ blame his brother, but it would be the grief speaking, not the man himself. Deep down Neria was certain Fergus would know the blame lay solely at Rendon Howe's feet, not his brother's.

"I'll go with you, Aeden, when you go to tell him. I won't let you do it alone," she added, taking his hand in her own small one. Aeden smiled sadly as he gave her hand a half-hearted squeeze.

"Thank you, Neria. It will make it easier not to face him alone."

"We're in this together now, all of us. We're Warden recruits, soon we'll be Wardens. We have to be there for each other like family now," smiled Neria warmly as she stood up, pulling up Aeden with her. More she tugged at his hand until he got up himself. The man was _heavy_, even without his chainmail. She gave him one more quick hug.

"And now I think we should feed our new family, don't you think?' smiled Neria and she felt pride as the man smiled back at her, some little part of the boy in the Grand Hall sparking back into life before her. Perhaps he wasn't entirely lost. Maybe she could help heal her new brother.

* * *

"It won't poison you, Brosca," huffed Neria, indignant at the unspoken question on the dwarf's face.

"I disagree."

"It does look rather…_grey_, Lady Surana," added Sereda diplomatically. "Is that what furred nug is supposed to look like cooked?"

"Okay, I am never calling it _rabbit_ ever again," snickered Daylen, whispering the words _furred nug_ under his breath and shaking his head.

"If you don't want to eat it, then fine. Don't eat it," snapped Neria in a shrill, hurt voice. The mage turned as a small hand softly touched her shoulder and there was Kallian, face thoughtful as she looked at Neria's grey mess.

"This can be salvaged. Put enough herbs and some nice, tasty tubers in here and no one will taste the grey. I promise I'll find you a book on campfire cookery at the first town we pass," smiled Kallian softly, taking over from the mage as she attempted to turn the grey rabbit stew into something that didn't look so ominous.

"You should add embrium," stated Aeden while Kallian was bent over the cooking pot, stirring what had now turned into a passable brown stew. She shot the human noble a dark glare.

"How many times have you cooked, lordling?" snapped Kallian as she sprinkled a little more spindleweed into the concoction.

"Well, never, but I did watch Nan make rabbit stew while I sat on the counter eating cookies. She always added embrue by now."

"Well, I am not your _Nan_ and I'm not making a winter tonic for lung infections. Stay out of my cooking unless you want in the pot," warned Kallian. Neria snickered a little behind her hand at that. "I'm just trying to help."

"No you're trying to order. You're not a lord here, Cousland. I don't have to do things to suit you." Kallian turned her back to the human and called out to the others that the stew was ready. The dwarves and Daylen shovelled down her saved rabbit stew with gusto and even Neria asked for a second helping, albeit quietly and shame-faced.

"There's nothing to be ashamed about, Neri," smiled Kallian. "I've been cooking for my father and cousins since I was seven, when my mother died. You've never had to cook before. I'm sure Amell wouldn't do much better."

"Worse," interjected Daylen with a smile, his mouth full of his third helping of stew. "I would definitely do worse."Neria smiled warmly at her friend and with a murmured thanks ate delicate spoonfuls of her stew. Faren let out a belch of satisfaction and rubbed his round stomach in contentment.

"I'm flattered, Faren," smiled Kallian warmly. Neria had noticed the dwarf and city elf had become fast friends on the road from Denerim. They were certainly cut from the same cloth and it made her all the more embarrassed for her early judgements of Brosca.

"Ach, if you were a foot shorter and had some more meat on you, Dandelion, I'd ask to join with me in the sight of the Ancestors," smiled Faren happily and Kallian laughed.

"I assume that's dwarfy-speak for 'I'd ask you to marry me' and I'll take that as a compliment from a square, short little bastard like yourself." Faren barked with laughter, slapping the elven girl on the arm in good humour.

The recruits caught sight of Duncan, standing in the shadows just out of reach of the campfire's light. His face was grim as he acknowledged the with a nod, walking into the orange glow. Neria noticed the hunter behind him, the firelight dancing across the leaf-like design that curled around his eye and down his cheek; Mahariel.

"Recruits, I would like you to welcome Theron Mahariel, hunter of Dalish. He will be joining us to Ostagar and joining the Grey Wardens alongside you all." Neria furrowed her brow, tilting her head like a bird in thought.

"But he's sick," protested Kallian, drawing the eyes of the others to where she stood by the spit, bowl in hand. Her ears seemed to turn pink at the sudden attention. "I mean, what good is a a Grey Warden who's dying of the Blight sickness?"

"The Warden possess a cure for such an ailment," confessed Duncan solemnly and Neria nearly snapped her neck with the speed she had turned to Duncan. The Warden-Commander seemed to notice the indignation on the beaker's face. If the Wardens had a cure all this time why did they allow so many to suffer and die from the disease? It was such needless cruelty. "It is not pleasant and not everyone survives the treatment, Surana. I promise to explain at Ostagar."

"Please do, Commander," said Neria through pursed lips, her anger evident in the iciness of her pale blue eyes.

"Until then, please make Mahariel feel comfortable, recruits. We leave the Dalish tomorrow." Duncan disappeared into his tent, leaving Theron standing awkwardly. Neria tore her stare away from the Warden-Commander's tent with a sigh and turned to the Dalish man, forcing a friendly smile for his benefit.

"Are you hungry, _Tur'assan_?" Neria heard Kallian snort at the honorific, but the mage paid her friend no mind. Theron sighed and gave a small nod. "Well, Kallli saved my abysmal rabbit stew if you'd like some. We've all had our fill."

"I haven't!" protested Daylen and Neria gave her fellow mage a pointed glare.

"Skirts, if you eat any more you're not going to fit your dresses," pointed out Faren, eliciting laughter from the rest of the camp. Neria paddled out a bowl os stew with a snicker and passed it to Theron who accepted the bowl with a quiet bow of his head.

"It's not a dress, dwarf; they're robes."

"Hey, I'm not judging, Skirts," defended Faren in a mock serious tone. "I've worn my sister's dresses more than once with enough ale in me. Very breezy; I can see the appeal." Neria smiled as the others joined in with the laughter and banter.

Her companions were all sick in some way. Neria was homesick, and even Daylen seemed to miss the familiarity of the Circle a little, but he had ben sick with his loathing of the Chantry long before now. Faren missed his sister, and had been beaten down and forced into a darkness as deadly as the Blight itself. Sereda had been cast out of her home and her family, but she seemed lighter for it, as if the life of a dearven princess had been a sickness unto itself. Aeden had lost everything to the ambitions of a man he had seen as family, and had the confrontation with his brother about their losses still ahead of him. Kallian…well, Kallian might be the sickest of them all. The hardships the city elf had survived, the loss of her mother, a sister, that pervasive sense of failure that followed in her wake…she was just as sick emotionally as Mahariel was physically. All of their illnesses would kill them as surely as a Blight sickness if left to fester.

"I hope you can come to see us as friends, Mahariel. As Wardens, we will be family to one another," smiled Neria as the hunter regarded his stew with an unreadable expression. Neria made to move toward Daylen who was still squawking like an injured parrot before she heard the Dalish man's quiet baritone.

"_Ma serannas, Era'elgar_."

"Anytime, Mahariel. What are fellow Wardens for?" smiled Neria with a shrug.

* * *

_T/N Era'elgar - spirit healer, literally spirit-mage_

_Olor'lan - "sleeping one" the ancient immortal elves_

_Tur'assan - master of the arrow, a respectful way to address a hunter_


	11. Tall Folks Are Crazy

**Tall Folks Are Crazy**

_More just conversational drabble as the recruits get to know one another on the road to Ostagar. It was much easier to write from Faren's PoV this time. Maybe he's unwinding a little on the surface, whatever it is, this was actually surprisingly easy to put together for a drabble piece. Work and real life have been insanely busy, but now I'm back to one job again I can get back to writing more regularly. Enjoy, and once again Bioware owns everything._

* * *

Faren was surprised to admit to himself that he actually missed the Brecilian forest as the recruits followed Duncan down the Imperial Highway. Perhaps it was the security of the leafy ceiling above or the familiarity of the closely packed trees so like the stalagmite forests of the Deep Roads he had scouted on behalf of the Carta in his youth, but there was definitely a kind of home to the damp, soft forest. There was also a noticeable lack of darkspawn, not counting the group that had obviously infected the Dalish hunter who now lagged behind their troupe as default rearguard, a wolf loping by his feet.

Faren turned his honey eyes on the hunter, who trailed more out of a self-imposed isolation than any illness. The dwarf shook his head. He had seen Blight sickness before. There probably wasn't a Duster who hadn't. Bad way to go. If it were Faren in the elf's place he'd take a crossbow to the temple; death on his own terms.

Beside the dwarf, flanking him on either side, walked Kallian and Daylen, gleefully singing a bawdy Ferelden tune that made the pale ears of Neria ahead turn pink while the usually dour human noble-caste and even the precious Aeducan princess chuckled at some of the more tawdry lines. Duncan actually seemed to be humming the tune himself.

"Hey, Shorty, do they have Alienages in Orzammar. You know, like Denerim's?" asked Kallian, suddenly stopping midway through a verse about the more…_salacious_ details of Andraste and the surfacers' Maker's relationship.

"By Alienage, do you mean; walled up, festering shitpile filled with everyone the stuffed shirt 'good' people spit on; where the piss and shit and refuse from the diamond-shitters runs down with the water? Like that, Dandelion?" Faren's smiled didn't reach his hard eyes.

"Throw in; treated like a free brothel for every lordling with a few ales in him, and you'd be spot on, Shorty," added Kallian with a pained grimace. Faren shot her a quick, soft look at the 'brothel' comment only to see that same dead, empty stare he had seen back in Denerim when she had come back, wedding dress torn and drenched in blood, helping her young cousin to walk. If that had been Rica…well, Faren wasn't sure he would have survived the day.

"Yeah, we have that: Dust Town. That's where I grew up, Dandelion," sighed Faren, patting the elven girl on the arm, making her smile slightly in thanks.

"You know, they never let me and Neria go to Dust Town. Maker, we didn't even get to go into the Alienage with you and Duncan. Is it really that bad?" asked Daylen, receiving a pointed glance from Faren and Kallian in return.

"Yeah, Skirts, it really is that bad; in both," responded Faren and the mage just shook his head. Faren briefly wondered if he was shaking his head at the revelation or at the new nickname he'd been stuck with since that night at the Dalish camp.

"If the Alienage is so bad, why didn't you leave, or fight back?" asked a deep baritone in heavily accented Common from behind and three pairs of eyes turned to the usually silent Dalish hunter, but the elf only looked down at Kallian, whose face had turned hard like freshly forged steel.

"Excuse me?" spat the elf, her small body quivering with rage and Faren did not miss the way her hands twitched toward the two shortswords strapped to her hips. "I don't remember asking for your elfier-than-thou, self-righteous, sodding opinion."

"I only asked a simple question. I do not see what there is to take offence to." Faren reacted faster than his elven friend, grabbed her wrist before she had unsheathed her sword, drawing those dead green-gold eyes to glare at him for a brief moment before Kallian returned to them. In that moment Faren had felt actual fear, a sensation that had been forgotten since he was young boy, toddling rather than walking.

"How about you walk ahead, Dandelion, blow off some steam, yeah?" That look might be the most frightening thing the elven lass had in her arsenal. Even Rica didn't have such a glare of unbridled rage in her worst moments and Faren carefully released Kallian's wrist as the elf visibly struggled to calm herself.

"That's a good idea." Daylen's dark eyes flitted between the pair and then briefly at the unreadable expression on Mahariel's face before he decided to join the elven girl as they walked on ahead, Daylen decided to regale the elven lass with stories of being a rebellious pain in the Templars' skirts as an apprentice. Mahariel made to follow, but Faren raised a hand, giving the man a dark look.

"Not you, elfy," ordered Faren, in a tone that brokered no argument. "Now I get that growing up travelling around with a bunch of frolicking tree-huggers hasn't done much for your social life, elf, I do, so maybe you aren't being antagonistic on purpose, but you better watch yourself and the way you talk to Dandelion, y'hear?"

"Are you threatening me, dwarf?" The wolf at Mahariel's feet seemed to tense, her lips drawn back over pointed teeth in a snarl. Faren growled back at the beast that seemed surprised to be addressed in kind. Faren glared at the elf, his eyes dark and shadowed.

"I don't threaten, elf. I'm warning you. You might not have respect for that lass for whatever reason that is, but she is strong and she is fierce and if she don't gut your pointy-eared self if you hurt her with your tactlessness, I will. You getting any of that?"

"She can hardly aspire to be a Warden if she can't handle-"

"I never asked for your opinions on the _certainty_ of that girl becoming a Warden, elf. I asked if you understood what I'm saying to you?" Faren glared up at the imposing man, not remotely intimidated by his size, or the wolf with her raised hackles. He had faced down worse in the Carta.

"Because that girl is dear to me and she's been through enough without you making anything worse on her. I saw her _dripping_ in noble-caste blood, and if you're lucky she won't drag out your death like she did the man who destroyed her wedding. The way I hear it he screamed for hours, elfy. You watch yourself." Composing his own internal rage, Faren turned on his heel and stormed off ahead to catch up with the others, leaving the elf still in a mix of silence and deep thought before the wolf nudged at his heels and forced him to move.

"Are you actually being serious?" asked Daylen, his mouth hanging open as Faren caught up to the others, Duncan smiling beneath that bushy beard of his. Faren nudged Kallian, who seemed too shocked to be angry now, but the elf just stared wide-eyed at the Warden-Commander.

"Yes, Amell," smiled Duncan, arms crossed over his chest smugly. Faren shook Kallian's arm again.

"Oi, Dandelion," called Faren, finally catching the girl's attention as she looked down - _only slightly down_, corrected Faren, _she's barely four inches taller than me_ \- and he tilted his head at the Warden-Commander and mage. "What's going on?"

"Duncan says we're close to a village and we can stay at their inn tonight," the young elf all, but whispered, excitement colouring her tone as her shocked face melted into a blazing smile that actually made Faren chuckle fondly.

"A real inn? Like with ale?" That made Kallian laugh as Faren grinned smugly to see her back to her usual chirpy self.

"Yes, Shorty, with ale, and _real_ Maker-forsaken beds and a sodding _bath_," grinned Kallian, her cheeks dimpling with mirth. All of the raging darkness that had clouded her face earlier had all but disappeared at the thought of submerging herself in hot water, surely a luxury in the Alienage, as much as in Dust Town.

"I haven't had a real bath since Denerim," Neria half-sighed, half prayed. Her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment as she caught Faren's raised eyebrows. "Half-frozen dips in whichever stream's nearby hardly counts as a bath."

"Agreed," added Kallian, emphatically. "Do you think they'll have soaps. Nothing fancy, but real honest-to-Andraste soap?" Faren shook his head at the two elves as they barely kept their composure enough not to skip arm in arm behind Duncan, talking about baths and soaps and whatnot.

"Women, eh?" smirked Faren, elbowing Daylen in the hip.

"Hey," yelped the mage, rubbing his hip and pouting. "I want a bath just as much as the girls do. I also _need_ you to soak yourself in at least ten gallons of soapy water, Brosca," added Daylen, holding his nose to prove his point.

"You smell like you've been marinating in Bronto shit since birth." The dwarf chuckled.

"That's a luxury reserved for the noble-castes, Skirts, and maybe some of the more well-off lower caste families; not my sort." Daylen laughed, but the mirth left his face as he realised the dwarf wasn't laughing. He turned his head in a comical mixture of dread and disgust to a flushed Sereda walking just behind the pair, the human noble-caste ever at her side. The golden skinned dwarf was turning red enough under Daylen's stare to match her fiery hair.

"Look, it's widely believe to benefit the skin-"

"Ugh, gross!" spat Daylen, visibly shuddering at the thought. "Dwarves are disgusting!" Sereda only turned a more brilliant shade of crimson in response as Faren laughed manically.

"Neither of you is cooking, ever again!" declared Daylen as he stormed off to impart his newfound knowledge on Neria and Kallian up ahead. Neria's shriek probably carried all the way to Weisshaupt as Kallian doubled over with laughter.

"Doesn't bother you, Sparkles?" asked Faren and Aeden's eyes narrowed at Faren's nickname. _A real stroke of genius that one_, thought Faren, gleefully. Almost as satisfying as calling Daylen _Skirts_.

"I've heard plenty of weird beauty regimes in my time, Brosca," shrugged the human noble-caste.

"What do surfacers do, then?" asked Sereda, her blush still raging out of control over her cherubic face. Faren didn't think they had anything worse than Bronto shit, but these tall folks were also content to live in a world without a ceiling and the comforting presence of hundreds of feet of earth above them. Pretty damned crazy in Faren's opinion.

"Well, when my mother….when she was young, Orlais still held Ferelden and it was commonplace among the Orlesian usurpers to bathe in lamb's blood. My…my sister-in-law…she…" Aeden sighed, struggling to keep his tone from quivering as it did talking about his family. "She told me that the Queen of Antiva took long baths in a mixture of goat's milk and snake venom to keep herself young. There was also something about an old Rivaini traditional ointment involving semen, but…."

"Noble-castes everywhere; disgusting," managed Faren, shaking his head at the insanity of these tall folks.

"Yeah, personally I'm hoping for soap," smiled Aeden, weakly as Sereda reached out a gentle hand to pat his arm in a quiet show of solidarity. Semen does _nothing_ for my appetite." The dwarven woman giggled…._giggled_. It was a disconcerting sound coming from a woman dressed in heavy plate with a claymore strapped to her back.

"What about you, Mahariel?" asked Sereda, looking over her shoulder at the stoney faced elf. Faren had forgotten about the man, but was promptly reminded of how much he disliked him once his dark whiskey eyes met those forest green ones. He smacked of a superiority complex and there were few things the dark-skinned Duster hated more.

"I have never had a _bath_, _durgen'lan_. The Dalish wash in streams, downriver of the drinking water, with a special lotion the _Tahve'lin_ makes for the clan to get the dirt off."

"Sounds like soap. I would love to try Dalish soap," smiled Sereda warmly and Faren shook his head. He lengthened his stride to move ahead of the noble-castes and their pet noble-caste elf to join his own kind as the village came into view ahead.

* * *

Neria handed Faren a small clear vial with a small awkward smile and the dwarf shifted uncomfortably. "The embrium should help to clear your lungs and nasal passages."

"Ah...thank you. I don't think sneezing snot all over the darkspawn is going to impress the little shits much," mumbled Faren as he pocketed the vial and lumbered out of the room she was sharing with Dandelion and the diamond-blood. Faren had the joy of sharing his room with Sparkles, Tree-Face - _hmm...I have to come up with something more apt to get under that pompous Dalish twit's skin_ \- and Skirts. At least Skirts was good value, which was more than Faren could say for the human tin can and the dour elf.

Hayfever was another joy of this _adventurous_ surfacer lifestyle that Faren could have lived without. Just to add to the ridiculousness of _flowers_ which did not grow in underground caves, thank you very much, apparently the little colourful bastards made his throat itch and his nose run. The dwarf's mistrust for this crazy ceiling-less world was growing with every passing day. Everything was out to kill him, even the _flowers_.

"This village is _boring_," sighed Daylen as Faren entered the rooms the men all shared, except for Duncan who had his own. The beds were built on top of each other like the bunks in mining camps down in the bowels of Orzammar. The human was out of his loud shiny armour, wearing clothes that actualy made him look like a person if it weren't for the miniature Bronto he called a _dog_ curled up beside him, its massive head resting in his lap. The elf had taken the bed above the noble-caste and was busy rubbing down his bow with some kind of sweet smelling oil. The sight made Faren's lips twitch, but he didn't really feel like sharing any of his thoughts with Tree-Face.

"It's an inn, Skirts," pointed out Faren. "Let's drink some ale and you can show me your magic tricks."

"Their not magic tricks," protested Daylen as he walked past the dwarf toward the tavern floor, rolling his eyes. "I'm hardly some hedge wizard who burns wet leaves and chants over a pregnant woman so she'll have a boy."

"That's a thing? I thought you tall folks locked up everyone who did magic."

"Real magic, yeah." Faren signalled the barman for a couple of ales and watched the foaming mugs as they came his way before he slid into the booth after the mage. "The Templars might be dense, Brosca, but they can actually sense the difference between real magic and fake stuff."

"Why do people believe in the fake stuff, then?"

"Because humans are _idiots_, Shorty," chimed in Dandelion's voice, the little elf holding her own mug of ale as she sat down beside Faren. He grabbed greedily for his own mug once it arrived, almost draining it dry in the first mouthful. The surfacers did make a good ale, that he would give them.

"You just haven't met the right one, Tabris," smirked Daylen, his voice lowered seductively, making Faren snort into his mug. The elf shot the man a dirty look.

"Not a chance, _shem_. I find the act of pulling their intestines out and hanging them around the room like Saturnalia bunting far more enjoyable than the prospect of ever sleeping with one," she added with that hard, frightening glint of utter ruthlessness in her strange coloured eyes. Even Skirts wasn't stupid enough to play around when Kallian got that look in her eye.

"Still a bit sensitive today, Dandelion?" asked Faren with a fond smirk and the elf just sighed in to her cups.

"Eh, I'm not a kid anymore to be hurt by insults or nothing. Been called worse since I was old enough to walk, but..."

"It's worse when it comes from your own kind?" suggested Daylen with a sympathetic look in his dark eyes as he threw back his own ale.

"I guess as a youngling I thought meeting a Dalish would be more...I dunno, more."

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever encounter a real apostate," sighed Daylen with that world weary look he got sometimes. For a man who spent most of his life living in a tower, Skirts wasn't nearly as stupid and naive as Faren would think. This mage knew how shitty the world was, more so than the Princess did.

"My sister was an apostate," smiled Kallian and both Faren and Daylen stared at the elf.

"I didnae know you had sister, Dandelion." the flash ofpain, old and scarred made his chest clench though.

"I don't anymore. My father never talked about her. The Templars got her and someone told my mother they killed her. Would have only been five at the time, and I was maybe three."

"Sodding Templars," mumbled Daylen, the old hatred leeching into his voice.

"Well, fuck me. We are a depressing bunch," sighed Faren as he drained his cup and Kallian smiled down at him.

"Well, I vote we drink until we aren't depressing and greet Ostagar with the hangover it deserves!" The two men cheered her as she waved the barman for another round. Tonight might be the last time they would get to let go and tomorrow could look after it's own damned self.

* * *

_T/N_

_Tahve'lin - crafter (lan/lin/len for f/m/pl) Tanwe is actualy Quenya for craft so I just tailored it for broken DA Elvish_

_If anyone has some tips for my construction of Elvish I'm open to any kind of advice...its an annoying language to half create on your own_


	12. The Mercurial Golden Giant

**The Mercurial Golden Giant**

_It feels so good to be writing more now. Actual free time, and it's wonderful. I just want to say a big thank you to the people who leave me reviews. I appreciate it and I'm sorry took me so long to put the last chapter up. I promise I am not going to abandon this story. It needs to be written and out of my system. SO thank you and I hope you enjoy this chapter, too. Of course, Bioware owns this, I just string words together._

* * *

Sereda had a lifetime of training to keep her thoughts off her face, but she couldn't help the smile that snuck over her lips at the beauty of the old ruins of Ostagar. She was dwarven enough to appreciate the architecture and the seamless flow of stone, but nothing in Orzammar, not even the Palace, looked like _this_ did.

Aeden trailed behind their little group, his face stony and unreadable. Sereda dawdled a little, looking up at the aged white limestone archways above them, in order to walk beside the human. The nobleman was in a dark place and Sereda knew from a lifetime on the field that it did no one any good to let that darkness suck him in.

"You don't have to babysit me, Lady Aeducan." Sereda made a rude noise at the title and courtesy.

"Not a lady anymore, and as things stand I think Sereda is more appropriate. I am no longer an Aeducan in the eyes of the dwarva and we'll soon be bleeding and dying together in battle, Aeden." The man nodded grimly at that. Sereda considered him with soft violet eyes for a moment.

"You are worried about running into your brother?" his dark eyes snapped down at her, confirmation of her suspicions evident in the dread that passed over his face.

"I...yes. It will not be an easy encounter."

"He will not blame you. What happened...the fault lies with Howe, not you." Aeden looked down at the dwarven noble-caste.

"You know, Neria said the same damned thing."

"Then it must be true. The healer is a wise woman," pointed out Sereda with a small sympathetic smile.

"My head knows the truth, Sereda," admitted Aeden with a sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. "My heart is not so convinced."

"Then, your heart is a fool." Her voice was hard with an edge that could cut through glass. The man looked taken aback at her sharp tone. "Your brother, however, is not. You cannot be all knowing and all powerful, Aeden. Not even the magisters of the Imperium were at the height of their power on the surface lands. You can't control everything. The only thing you can control is yourself and your own survival. I would say you succeeded, and against near impossible odds, at that." The human noble was quiet as he regarded her words. He examined each with the kind of eye a miner-caste regarded a jewel for its flaws and Sereda let the silence stretch between them.

"You are quite wise yourself, Sereda."

"Don't spread it around. I made my reputation in Orzammar as a silly, well-trained princess and I wish to keep it that. It is much easier to keep people off blaance if they think they know what they're dealing with and in the meantime you've discovered exactly who and what they are," added Sereda with a wicked grin that elicited a reluctant chuckle from Aeden.

"You could hardly have been a commander if that were true."

"You would be surprised how easy it is to convince men you are nothing more than a silly little girl playing with swords." She smiled up at the sad man. "I will go with you to meet your brother. I am sure Neria will also join us. This is not a task you have to do alone. Soon we will be brethren in the Wardens, and you can call on your family for help with the heavy burdens, no?"

"Thank you, Sereda."

"It is not an issue. With the elf I think we maxed our quota for self pity," grinned Sereda, making the man laugh again. Her attention was brought forward again, however, as her eyes caught the sight of a golden giant walking towards them. It looked like an ancient golem of the Deep Roads, but beaten out of gold, rather than stone and lyrium. It removed its golden helmet, shaped like the lion's head that waved on flags around the camp in the distance and the blond man beamed at Duncan.

"Ho there!" called the man in a cheerful baritone, slapping a hand against Duncan's silverite shoulder guard as he clasped the Warden-Commander's wrist.

"King Cailan!" Surprise coloured Duncan's usually calm voice and Sereda got the impression the man was rarely caught off-guard. "I did not expect-"

"A royal welcome?" grinned the king as Sereda studied him with a critical eye. The SHaperite had beautiful friezes on its walls of King Maric fighting in the Deep Roads beside Duncan, himself during the Ferelden Civil War. She could see the resemblance in this golden man, but this was not the bearing of someone born on the battlefield, who had spent every minute of his life fighting as King Maric had. He reminded her somewhat of Bhelen's outer frivolity and wondered if the same cold ruthlessness was hidden behind the genial smile and showy plate.

"According to the Wardens you've brought half of Ferelden with you as recruits," grinned Cailan, looking past Duncan at their rag-tag group of seven, his amber eyes widening as he saw Aeden beside Sereda and the dwarven woman looked between the two man as the king approached them.

"Aeden? I never thought Bryce would allow anyone, but a wife take you from Highever," beamed the man good-naturedly as he clasped the nobleman's wrist, making Sereda wince at the at the innocent ignorance of the king.

"News hasn't reached you, Your Majesty?" managed Aeden, the pain evident in his voice. It was as if the sun had moved behind dark storm clouds on the king's face.

"News? What news, Aeden? What's happened?"

"Arl Rendon Howe has shown himself a traitor, Your Majesty," answered Duncan, stepping in to spare Aeden the pain of saying the words. "He attacked Highever after their forces had moved south and put the keep to the sword."

The storm flashed in those clouds now, as fascinating to watch as the sky itself. Cailan dropped Aeden's wrist and stepped back, visibly controlling what was no doubt an explosive temper, just as Trian's had been. Dealing with her older brother's temper had been akin to handling raw lyrium and yet, Sereda felt a dull ache in her chest at the memory.

"That thrice-cursed son of a pox-filled whore," swore Cailan, his golden eyes ablaze. "How could he think to get away with such treachery? I'll mount the bastard's head on a bloody spike!"What a change from the jovial, golden man who had greeted them moments earlier. Sereda smiled internally, _yes there was ruthlessness behind that carefree facade, and the makings of a fine king._

Cailan promised Aeden he would turn his army north once they'd dealt with the darkspawn here. He apologised that Fergus - _Teyrn Fergus, now_, thought Sereda, grimly - was out on a scouting mission and wouldn't be back for three days. Aeden clamped down on any reaction he had to the new, no doubt a mixture of relief and guilt, making Sereda pat the nobleman's arm in sympathy.

"And you, friend?" Sereda looked up to see those topaz eyes trained on her now. "Might I know your name?"

"I am Sereda, Your Majesty, formerly of the House Aeducan of Orzammar," greeted Sereda with a polite bow and all of the courtesies she had learnt while still in swatting.

"Yes, I believe we have trade agreements with King Endrin Aeducan, but I have not had a chance to visit Orzammar in person," managed the king, forcing a smile through those dark clouds. "You are relatives?"

"I was his first-daughter, Your Majesty, when I was still of Aeducan. I am now nothing more or less than a recruit of the Grey Warden," answered Sereda diplomatically, not missing the sly smile Daylen threw her.

"Modest and humble," smiled Cailan. "No doubt you will be missed in Orzammar's court, but you could find no better than the Grey Wardens, my lady." His eyes left hers and Sereda breathed a sigh of relief. Regardless of race, talking with nobility was a lot like trying to swim in mud.

"And this beautiful creature," smiled Cailan, warmly. Sereda did not mistake a snort from Kallian at that and the whisper of "Alienage fever." "who are you, my lady?"

"My name is Neria Surana, of the Circle of Magi, Your Majesty," blushed the pale elf, her long ears pink beneath her white hair.

"I am pleased to meet such a lovely mage," smiled Cailan, already seemingly recovered from Aeden's news to flirt with the poor girl. His eyes raked over her body before he offered Daylen a wrist-clasp.

"And you are a mage, too, I take it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. My name is Daylen Amell and I'm a battle mage, whereas Neria, here, is a healer," answered Daylen, coolly, obviously offended by the way Cailan gawked at his friend. It was almost like Gorim's reaction anytime noblemen had tried to seduce Sereda at court, although the dwarven woman knew it came from a different place in the human mage.

"Excellent! The Wardens do not have any mages in Ferelden at the moment. We have seen here, first hand, that they can be the difference between life and death for our soldiers and the Chantry would not allow us nearly enough from the Circle."

"Perhaps the Chantry fear if we mages get a taste of freedom, of using our gifts to protect ourselves and our country we won't be content to go back into their pretty little cage," retorted Daylen flippantly. ereda snickered at Neria's gasp and Duncan's audible sigh. The king merely chuckled and clapped the mage on the arm with a gold armoured hand.

"And you, sir?" asked Cailan, looking down at Brosca with a smile. "Are you another Orzammar born warrior then, like the Lady Aeducan?"

"Nothing alike," grunted Faren as he accepted the wrist-clasp reluctantly.

"It is good to see more of the honourable stout folk outside of Orzammar," smiled Cailan.

"Stout? Is that some kinda dig?" questioned Faren, dark honey eyes narrowed and Sereda kept her mirth off her face. The Casteless rogue no doubt had less than pleasant dealings with nobles back home.

"I apologise if I offended you. I have nothing, but the deepest respect for your people," added Cailan placatingly.

"I doubt you've met many of _my_ people," grumbled Brosca as the king moved to Kallian. Sereda could see the daggers in the elven girl's green-gold eyes.

"Another elven beauty. Might I know your name as well, my lady?" asked Cailan qith another dazzling smile although it didn't elicit the same reaction it had in Neria. Kallian's jaw set and her eyes were hard as steel.

"Kallian Tabris." Her tone was curt and there wasn't even the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

"Do you hail from one of my Alienages? My guards won't let me see the Denerim one. They have this crazy idea the elves who live there would attack their king," laughed Cailan, not remotely perturbed by her less than enthusiastic response.

"I did cut Bann Vaughan's innards out and choke him to death with them," retorted Kallian blandly, her words edged like the blades strapped to her back. Everyone's attention was fully enveloped by the pair and everyone except for Brosca seemed shocked at her bland tone. She could have been remarking about the weather this time of year.

"Duncan?" managed the king his eyes wide with shock, unable to tear them from Kallian's cold, calm mask. _By the Ancestors, Brosca isn't the only one they left a lot of stone on when they carved the statue_, thought Sereda ruefully. Isolating and ghettoising any group of people had the same effect regardless of race; they became survivors, a hard and unforgiving existence that had no time for the proprieties of court life.

"It's not quite the way I would have put it, Your Majesty," murmured Duncan, rubbing a hand over his face.

"It was my wedding day," explained Kallian, in that same detached tone as if it were someone else's story she was telling. "He kidnapped myself and my female attendants. His men killed my betrothed and he was personally responsible for the rape of my fifteen year old cousin. It was hardly the first time he had committed such crimes against my people. Such things are a daily occurrence. It was time for _mien'harel_."

"I... are things truly so bad ni the Alienages?" asked Cailan and Sereda could see the exasperation on Kallian's face.

"Yes, Your Majesty," answered Duncan before Kallian could deliver the barb that waited on her tongue.

"I swear to you, my lady, I will stamp out this gross abuse. Your people are Fereldens as much as the humans and under my care as your liege. I will find some way to right what has been done to the Alienages," promised Cailan and Sereda smiled. He was more and more like Bhelen who would drag Orzammar into the modern era by its ears if he had to.

"And you, friend?" asked Cailan, still clearly perturbed by Kallian's words as he finally turned to greet their last companion, his eyes drinking in the elaborate leaf-like design that covered one of Mahariel's cheeks. "I assume you are Dalish?"

"Yes."

"I...ah...I hear the Dalish are skilled and honourable people," managed the king, trying to muster himself at the elf's reticent tone and blank face.

"It is a pity the same cannot be said of your people, _shem."_ Sereda's eyes darted toward Duncan. The Warden-Commander looked like he would need a stiff drink after this fiasco.

"I...yes...your people have many reasons to hate mine, but know you _are_ welcome here. The Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you among them." Cailan looked happy to escape the conversation in any way, despite his diplomatic tone. "I..ahh..should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

"Your uncle sends his regard, Your Majesty," added Duncan. "He says Redcliffe's forces can be here within the week." Cailan laughed at that, shifting back into the happy facade of before, as ever changing as the sky above.

"Eamon just wants in on the glory," laughed the king. "We've won three battles against these monsters and the next battle shall be no different."

"You sound very confident of that, Your Majesty," interjected Sereda, careful to keep her tone light. She had fought darkspawn all her life and grown up with the tales of the Blights on the surface, the respite for the dwarva as the humans and elves and outcast dwarves faced the same horror that tried to take over Orzammar each and every day in between. She knew the spawn were not to be underestimated.

"Overconfident, some would say," laughed the king. "Just ask the Warden-Commander."

"I'm not sure the Blight can be ended quite as...quickly as you might wish, Your Majesty," was all Duncan could respond with, careful not to outright question the king's leadership. _What a headache to have to ride herd on an oversized child who happens to wear the crown_, thought Sereda. The king had good instincts when it came to his diplomacy, and he was as ruthless as any ruler in Thedas would be, but the man had never fought before this surface incursion. Unlike his father, he wasn't raised on the same lifestyle of strategy and war and blood and death. Sereda worried her bottom lip at the thought the man seemed to be ignoring the two of his advisors who _had_; Duncan, and Loghain, who could be no other than the Hero of the River Dane.

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight," shrugged Cailan flippantly. "There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but, alas, no sign of an Archdemon."The tall golden man sighed heavily, like a child who was told they weren't receiving nameday gifts this year. "I had hoped for a war like in the tales: a king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god!"

"What? No griffons?" whispered Kallian, rolling her eyes at the man's back as he sighed and Sereda careful covered her chuckle with a cough.

"This will have to do," breathed Cailan, pulling his disappointment back under that carefree sunny smile of his. "I will have to go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell and good luck, Grey Wardens."

"The man is an idiot." That was Theron, as the king moved out of earshot toward his tent in the camp. The tall elf shook his head and Sereda noticed that his wolf was nowhere to be seen. In fact, she hadn't seen the beast since the last village they passed. Perhaps it wanted to hunt.

"What the king said _is_ true. They've won several battles against the spawn already," implored Duncan as he gestured for their little group to follow him.

"You don't sound convinced," pointed out Aeden and Sereda nodded, noticing as she did so that five other heads had joined her.

Despite the victories here, the darkspawn horde grows larger every day. Now they look to outnumber us," explained Duncan. Sereda found herself faling into the same mindset as she had while commander, brief stint though it was. It had been something she had trained for her whole life. "I know there is an Archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

"You could, if he were not such a fool," disagreed Theron, and Sereda found herself smiling to herself. This was probably the most the elf had ever spoken voluntarily in their presence, but she didn't miss how each word to pass his lips grated at Kallian who obviously agreed with him, but hated doing so.

"You shouldn't speak of the king so," chastised Duncan, but with a tone that said he sympathised with Theron, and perhaps agreed with him on some level. "He is...overeager, perhaps, but is one of our few allies here. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few, so we must make do with what we have here and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference." His face turned grim.

"We should proceed with the Joining, but it has been a long trip for you all. You may rest at camp, resupply yourselves if you have the need. I will need at least one of you to find a Grey Warden named Alistair. He will chaperone you during your stay and answer any questions he can about the Wardens and the darkspawn. I will see you all at first light." WIth that they were dismissed, and Sereda looked up at Aeden.

"Best settle in, and get some rest," shrugged the nobleman.

"You can do that, Sparkles, but I'm going to look around. Want to come snooping with me, Dandelion. I don't necessarily like this mysterious _Joining_," grumbled Faren and the city elf smiled at him.

"You know how to show a girl a good time, Shorty," grinned Kallian and Aeden just rolled his eyes. There was no point trying to stop the suspicious duo. Neria and Daylen both volunteered to look for Alistair and Sereda was surprised that Theron actually joined herself and Aeden in moving toward the camp.

"You can go and explore, Mahariel," offered Sereda. "Aeden and I have spent enough time in camps such as these, but it might do you some good to walk around and get a feel for the soldiers."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. One _shemlen_ at a time is quite enough for me. I am sure there is nothing I would find interesting about a whole horde of them," shrugged Theron and Sereda didn't miss how Aeden's shoulders tensed with agitation at the Dalish. "I will join you only so far as our camp and then I will find somewhere quiet to pitch my own tent. Atisha does not like crowded places any more than I do."

The man was silent as a wraith as he trailed behind Sereda and Aeden. Sereda wondered if there was anything they could do to help the Dalish man's transition, to make him feel more included in their soon-to-be little Warden family. It was never a good idea to let a soldier get isolated in his own mind in the Deep Roads, and the same could be said of life as a Warden. It was much the same cycle and Sereda had seen too many good men get locked in their heads and killed too young to allow it to just happen in front of her if she could still do something about it. _It is, however, a problem for another day_, thought Sereda with a yawn.

* * *

_Mien'harel - rebellion, a common city elf term apparently for reminding humans they could exact justice when provoked_


	13. You Can't Take The Circle

**You Can't Take the Circle Out of the Mage**

_I'm sorry this has taken forever to write. I found it so hard to write this chapter from Daylen's PoV, since I figured the mage-who-hates-templars would probably have a different reaction than my own. It's hard trying to not think of Alistair as the sweet, endearing fool that he is._

* * *

Adventure was not nearly as enjoyable as Daylen had imagined in the Circle. A lifetime of feather beds and pre-prepared meals every day had softened the impoverished Free Marcher migrant he had been when the Templars had taken him from Amaranthine.

It had its perk; no Templars watching his every move for one. Neria was another; a piece f Circle childhood and someone he could talk to about anything. Then, there were Kallian and Faren; the two lowborn outcasts knew the cruel realities in a way sweet, idealistic Neri never would. She had come to the Circle too young to remember more than a few vague impressions of an Alienage and a family. Kallian had the trauma of the Denerim's ghettos written into those hard green-gold eyes and yet, despite the cruelties his kind had dealt her the elf didn't seem to hold those crimes against him. Perhaps she saw him as a mage before a human, much like everyone else. To Kallian, however, it marked him as - not perhaps kin - maybe, comrade. Faren, well, he was like grease, letting the world slip off his dark umber skin; something Daylen had tried to do, and yet the world still stuck to him.

"Are you alright, Dayle?" questioned a soft voice beside him. "You're unusually quiet."

"I'm fine," grinned Daylen, taking Neria's arm in his and started to skip toward the ruined temple that loomed behind the camp, making the elf laugh.

"Surana? Is that you?"The familiar voice made Daylen's stomach curl in on itself in dread. He and Neria turned to see Senior Enchanter Wynne smiling at them brightly as she embraced her former student warmly.

"I received word from Irving only a week ago. I am glad I get to congratulate you in person, my dear Neria," smiled Wynne, her eyes brimming with the proud tears of a mother seeing her child succeed. "You have a unique destiny ahead of you, dear - both of you. The Wardens could do no better than two of our most promising apprentices."

"Ah...thank you," managed Daylen, stunned. Wynne had barely spoken to Daylen during his apprenticeship - except to admonish his wild behaviour. She had mentored those with talents in healing and spirit magicks, like Neria.

"The Circle is lessened by your loss, but you could not have a higher calling than the Grey Wardens. They alone stand against the darkness that threatens mankind, a darkness we mages brought in to this world, according to the Chantry," added Wynne softly.

"You don't believe the story of the magisters who tainted the Black City, Wynne?" asked Neria, curiously. Her mentor and she had spent many long nights talking philosophy, magical theory and history.

"I believe it is allegory, rather than fact, my sweet Neria. A story meant to teach us our own selfish desires cause human suffering. Or it could be true and we may never know," smiled Wynne. "I should go. After the battle, if you are free, you can find me in the healers' tents."

Daylen let out a breath as a the older mage left and he and Neria headed for the temple ruins. Wynne always made him feel like a young boy caught drawing naughty pictures all over his books. At the Quartermaster's tent pitched in front of the ruin he caught sight of Kallian and Faren. The dwarf was chatting amicably with a dark eyed man in worn leathers while the elf glared at the humans with those frighteningly sharp eyes of hers. Faren raised a hand in acknowledgement and mage returned the gesture with a quick smile. Surely the two thieves would have stories for them all tonight.

Raised voices echoed off the pillars as he and Neria entered the ruins. Neria looked up at Daylen, furrowed brows as she tilted her head like a bird.

"Haven't Grey Wardens asked _enough_ of the mages?" That was a voice Daylen knew all too well. Uldred had been his teacher in the Circle, albeit less warm and fuzzy a relationship than Neria and Wynne's.

"I...simple came to...deliver a message...from the Revered Mother, Ser Mage. She...desires your presence," stammered a nervous man's voice.

"What _Her Reverence_ desires is of no concern to me," spat Uldred as Daylen and Neria rounded the corner to see him glaring at a blond man in splint mail with red ears. "I am here on the _King's_ orders, not hers."

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" Daylen smirked at the blond man's snark. Neria gasped in shock, seeing Uldred's face turn red. Very few apprentices had ever tried the Senior Enchanter's notorious temper.

"Tell the woman I will not be harassed in this manner."

"Yes," smirked the man, folding his arms over his chest. "_I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering a message."

"Your glibness does you no credit. I will see the _bitch_ if she insists. Now get out of my way, fool." Uldred stormed past Neria and Daylen. The blond man noticed his audience and grinned.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings everyone together," sighed the man, making Neria giggle at Daylen's shoulder.

"I know exactly what you mean," smiled the elf.

"It's like a party. We could all stand around in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about." The man's smile fell a little as he eyed the staffs strapped to their backs. "Ahhh...I don't suppose you happen to be more mages?"

"Does the staff give it away?" Daylen raised an eyebrow, flicking his eyes at Neria. Perhaps this would be her first encounter with the more common closed minded bigotry of the regular Maker-fearing person. She had been lucky their companions were either lapsed Andrastians or held other beliefs, but his sweet friend had never seen the harsh bigotry so rampant to the common people.

"I only meant...that...you...don't look like mages, or..umm...that is to say...how _interesting,_" finished the stammering man. His ruddy brown eyes flitted between Neria and Daylen for a second before realisation dawned behind them. "Ohhhh, you're the two recruits from the Circle, right? Surana and Amell. I should have recognised you."

"So you must be Alistair, then?" confirmed Neria with her sweet bright smile that made the poor blond fool turn pink. Daylen shook his head with a quiet laugh. His elven friend could rule all of Thedas with that smile if she had half a mind to.

"How would you recognise us?" asked Daylen, catching that sentence for a moment. "Did Duncan distribute our likeness or something?" Alistair laughed at that.

"No, Duncan is a terrible sketch artist. He can draw a map better and quicker than anyone I've ever seen, but his artwork doesn't move past my own famous stick figures. He gave us a brief description of you all."

"I want to know what my identifier is," mused Daylen, pondering the secrets of the Warden-Commander's missives to his forces. Was it his smooth, tanned skin? His fantastic golden eyes? What did the man use to describe Daylen Amell to other people.

"Tall snarky mage accompanied by a pretty white haired elven mage."

"Well...it's...apt," scowled Daylen slightly while Neria giggled, trying to hide how red her little ears had gone at the word 'pretty'. Andraste's hairy upper lip, it was as if the woman had lived her whole life in the Circle without looking in a mirror.

"Yes, well, he has a way with words. Anyway, as the junior member of the Wardens I am to accompany you, and the others, when you prepare for the Joining."

"I look forward to working with you," smiled Neria.

"Huh, that's a switch," mumbled Alistair, blushing all over again at her sweet words. The three started to walk, leaving the temple behind to find where Aedan, Theron and Sereda had gone to set up camp.

"Can you tell us anything about this Joining?" poked Daylen, eyeing the man with careful suspicion. Something seemed...off about the blond man, and it wasn't just the way he tripped over his own feet or turned red whenever Neria spoke to him.

"Honestly...I can't. Just...try not to think about it? It...will just distract you," finished the panicked Warden. He acted so clumsily, so bad at even basic subterfuge that it sent alarm bells ringing inside Daylen's head.

"You know, it just occurred to me there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens, or mages for that matter. I wonder why that is," pondered Alistair, blatantly changing subjects on Daylen. The mage merely raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"You want more women in the Wardens, do you?" poked Daylen, making Neria elbow him in the ribs with a little more force than she usually put into it. It actually hurt a little.

"Would that be so awful? Not that I'm some drooling lecher or anything," added Alistair hastily, his brown eyes glancing for just a second at the pale blonde elf that walked between the two humans.

"It's probably because we're too smart for you boys," smirked Neria.

"True, but what does that make you? Or the other two women Duncan recruited."

"One of the boys?" offered Daylen with a pointed grin of his own. No one could ever mistake Neria for a tomboy. Kallian and Sereda could wear that mantle, if Daylen hadn't seen Sereda in that stunning gown of hers in Orzammar. Kallian had turned up in a dress, to be sure, but a wedding dress torn and splattered with blood was hardly _girly_ outside of Tevinter.

"Sad, isn't it?" smiled Alistair, still not quite able to look directly at Neria. He was saved by their arrival at the small recruit camp the others had set up. Kallian and Faren were back already, the elven woman having kicked off her boots and massaging her toes with a scowl.

"I fucking hate boots. These are shit, and I ruined my mother's pair with all the fighting," growled the elven woman. Faren just patted her on the arm with a smile.

"We'll find you some nice dwarven made boots somewhere, Dandelion. Or you could run around like Cheery, wearing those...elfy...foot...wrap...thingies."

"Ugh and get mud in between my toes. No, thank you, Shorty." Kallian made a face at that and Daylen grinnned at the dwarf's new nickname for Mahariel. He had been griping about naming the elf the whole trip from the Brecilian forest. Cheery was perfect. Now Daylen just needed to get the Carta thug to change his mind about calling the mage _Skirts_.

"Faren, Kallian," interrupted Daylen, drawing the attention of two of their shortest companions. "This is Alistair. He's a lecher that likes taunting bad tempered mages." Alistair's eyes went wide at that and he began to splutter in the most satisfying way.

"No...I...you..."

"Just ignore Skirts, kid. We do," grinned Faren, offering the red faced Warden a wrist clasp.

"I thought we was all full up on lechers with you, Amell," retorted Kallian with a pointed look, crossing her arms over her chest and not offering her hand to the blond man.

"Is this because of that one comment I made at the inn, Kalli? I was asking for _scientific_ purposes," smirked Daylen and Neria just looke between the two, obviously confused.

"Scientific, my arse."

"I do love it when you talk dirty to me."

"Are these two bothering you?" smiled Sereda as she came out from her tent, locking her brilliant violet eyes with an extremely uncomfortable, red-faced Alistair. "I'm Sereda," she added, grasping his wrist with more strength than the man expected the plump dwarven woman to possess.

"Maker's breath, I'm glad for the interruption," thanked Alistair, making Sereda wrinkle her eyes with a smile.

"I'd lie and say we're not normally like this, but..."

"Yeah, it's been much this way since we left Denerim," added Aedan, making his own introduction, narrowing his eyes at the man. "Do I know you?"

"I...no...I don't think so."

"I swear...Maker, Alistair, right? You're from Redcliffe?"

"I...yes. How did you know that?" asked the Warden.

"Still as forgetful as ever I see. Aedan Cousland. Ring any bells?" It took a moment and then, an explosion of laughter as Alistair embraced Aedan like a brother.

"To be fair, it has been years," smirked Alistair as the rest looked on bemused.

"Yes, and my face actually grew with me. You still look like the same ten year old who lived in the stables- less mud though."

"Yes, well, they beat that out of me in the Chantry."

"That's where you went? Eamon wouldn't tell me where he'd sent you. I just came back the next year and you were gone and that Orlesian bitch was pregnant with Connor. I thought she'd had you killed or something."

"No, no, she sent me packing to the Chantry to become a Templar - actually, that might have been much the same thing. It was boring enough I was sure I had died a few times." That word stuck out like a dragon's cock and the bemused smile Daylen had been wearing hardened into a thin line.

"Templar? Duncan sent a bloody Templar to watch over us?" Daylen's angry words cut through the air and the laughter like one of Kallian's daggers. Aedan stepped in front of Alistair ever so slightly, but Daylen noticed it and narrowed his dark eyes at the nobleman.

"It isn't like that-"

"Then, what is it like? When he offered me and Neria place in the Wardens I didn't think I was just going to join another Circle with more fatalistic leanings," snapped Daylen and he could feel Neria's cool, soothing magic seep over him. The spirit that aided her in healing was trying to calm him through the Veil.

"I'm not a Templar!" shouted Alistair. "I only trained to be one - and that wasn't my choice. It was go to the Chantry or starve. Duncan recruited me before I completed the training. I am a Warden, and one of the few Wardens who can disrupt darkspawn magic!"

"Daylen, please, calm down," murmured Neria. "It only makes sense there would be Wardens with Templar training, same as there are mages, archers, assassins, thieves, soldiers, knights, brigands - anything that can stop a Blight. He isn't here to guard us. This is not the Circle."

"He trained to kill us, Neria. Just like Cullen; who would have cut you down if you hadn't woken from your Harrowing quick enough. Who would have hunted us down, is probably hunting Jowan down this very second. They _hate_ us." Daylen knew his words hit Neria, and he knew they hurt her, but he couldn't hold them back. She needed to _know_. She needed to realise this world wanted them _dead_ because of an accident of birth, and this blonde, clumsy oaf was another, just like all the rest. Flaming swords emblazoned over polished steel plate. The smell of blood and the screams of his mother as she tried to buy him time to run.

"Daylen Fausten Amell," snapped Neria, her eyes cold and hard as ice. The force of her voice shook Daylen free of the memories and he blinked, dumbfounded as he saw his hands wrapped around Neria's arms, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Everyone was watching him, their faces mixed with concern, fear and confusion.

"Neria...I-"

"I know, but maybe you should take a walk." Her voice was soft, sweet, and understanding. Only Neria could forgive him so easily for hurting her. It shamed him to have treated such a beautiful person like that.

"Perhaps you are right."

* * *

Soft footfalls interrupted Daylen's silent self flagellation as he sat, staring into the Korcari Wilds. It wasn't Neria. Even in her soft soled Circle slippers she crashed through a forest with all the grace of a newborn deer. No, these were feet who knew how to be silent, but chose not to be.

"You were the last person I expected to come and find me," muttered Daylen as Theron sat down silently beside him.

"The dwarf said something about bringing you ale, but he can't track worth a damn," grunted the Dalish man as he handed the mage a waterskin filled with cheap, but palatable ale.

"So, what? You _volunteered_?"

"No. Atisha knew where you were and she doesn't speak to anyone else." Daylen merely grunted and took a hearty swig of the skin, passing it back to Theron who surprised the mage by taking a drink, himself. Silence passed between them for a time as they both stared into the Wilds and Daylen wondered where the elf's pet wolf was now. Whether she was watching them or out hunting.

"What is a..._Templar_?" The Dalish man attempted the strange, foreign on his tongue.

"You don't know?"

"I woud not have asked if I knew, _shemlen_." Daylen returned Theron's glare before sighing and sipping from their shared skin.

"Guards. They guard our mage prisons in the name of their bloody Chantry," spat Daylen, wiping the dregs from the short beard that had grown over their time on the road. It itched and annoyed the mage, and he made a note to procure a mirror and razor from somewhere. He didn't suit a Ferelden beard _at all_.

"This is a special task among the humans? Among the Dalish we are taught if our Keeper, their First or their Second is overcome by a demon we have to kill them for the sake of the clan and the soul of the unfortunate mage."

"Do you hate your mages, though? Treat them like vermin? Steal their ability to feel or dream or live?"

"No. Keepers are our leaders, collectors of our ancient language and history. Magic can be dangerous, but it is the touch of our Creators from their prison in the Beyond."

"The Chantry disagrees."

"It disagrees with a lot of things. They hide those things that don't agree with their version of history and lie to cover them up," sneered Theron, clenching his fists. Daylen nodded, drinking deeply.

"For a surly bastard you actually helped, Mahariel," smirked Daylen. "I'm not gonna thank you. I don't think you would care for me to do so, either, but you did." The Dalish man shot him a dark glare and grunted before he rose.

"The _era'elgar_ worries for you. You should return, or the flat-ears will stumble into the horde trying to find you in this swamp."

"You are a charming man, Mahariel," smiled Daylen, shaking his head. "It's a wonder Kallian harbours fantasies of stabbing you into a red puddle." He stood up, passing the elf his waterskin of ale back.

"The camp is that way," sighed Theron, pointing to his right, no doubt shaking his head at the mage's poor sense of direction.


	14. The Swamp of Fears

**The Swamp of Fears**

_Because I feel guilty about how long it took to upload the last chapter here is a bonus. It was surprisingly difficult not to wax on and on about how fantastic Morrigan is - I could write academic essays on her perfection - but I managed. _

* * *

Aedan's eyes glanced behind him where the mages trudged through the muddy swamp under the ever watchful eyes of the Dalish hunter and his pet wolf. Cat avoided the wolf after the first night when he'd tried to play with her and been snapped at, those long teeth too close to his squat, square face for the Mabari's liking. The Dalish had his bow out and loaded, ears twitching like a cat's as he slipped through the swamp without a sound, unlike his magical charges.

Aeden, Sereda, Alistair and the knight from Redcliffe, Ser Jory led their group, a wall of heavy armour between their rogues and the Wilds. The three thieves had their daggers out, creeping through the underbrush almost as silent as the Dalish hunter. The stranger, a thief from Denerim called Daveth, had a short bow strapped to his back, ready to drop back if the mages were threatened in the upcoming fighting.

Kallian had sworn herself out of breath when Duncan had given them their orders to go into the Wilds, find some darkspawn for their blood, an ancient chest of Grey Warden Treaties and get back before the true horde made its progress closer to the army. Aedan had held his tongue. Sure, it was dangerous, but so was life among the Wardens. If they were to be initiated and then lose their nerve upon sighting their first darkspawn what use would they be? It put all of the recruits on equal footing if they had all faced darkspawn. Sereda, Faren and Theron were the only ones among their little group who had any experience battling the monstrosities. Aedan had listened to the two dwarves as they traded tips and stories about the blighters. Mahariel hadn't offered any advice of his own beyond; "Don't get the blood in your mouth or wounds."

Kallian had scoffed at the grim elf, rolling her eyes. Aedan hadn't missed her muttering to Faren; "Well, there goes my plans of seducing them into surrender."

Now the city elf was silent, her armour and face streaked with mud and leaves she had meticulously placed over herself to break up her outline and hide herself from watchful eyes. Aeden could barely see her when he glanced behind him, surprised the city-born girl had any sense of woodcraft. Perhaps she had taken some tips from the all, but invisible dwarven Carta thug, since Aedan was sure she hadn't questioned the Dalish man.

The blighted wolves they encountered early on had burned off the first surge of Aedan's adrenaline, and now his arms twitched with pent up anxiety, wondering where the darkspawn were.

"Neria!" called a voice ahead and Aeden's brows furrowed. When had Faren passed the warriors? He had somehow scouted ahead, against the plan Aedan and Sereda had put together with Ser Jory and it irked the nobleman. What was the point in making a plan of attack if one person was going to take it upon themselves to ignore the plan and put themselves and everyone else in danger?

They finally caught up to the dwarf where he crouched over an injured man. Aedan was about to give the dwarf a talking to when he recognised the armour. This was a Highever scout, Jaime, who would have headed out with Fergus.

"Please, help me," croaked the scout and Neria rushed pass the warriors to see to her patient. Aedan heard Sereda bark out an order to Daveth to arm his bow and set up a watch with Theron as he crouched down beside the healer and the scout.

"Jaime, what happened?"

"Messere Cousland?" coughed the man as Neria rolled up her sleeve and began examining the nasty looking gash on the man's side that bled through his torn leathers. "We were scouting, and the young lord decided we should split in two groups to gauge the true size of the horde. We were ambushed by a scouting party, overwhelmed...everyone else...they..." He paused as wet coughs racked his body.

"Punctured lung," muttered Neria, her usually clinical, serene voice wavering with emotion. "I need to drain it before I can heal the wound, otherwise he will drown in his own blood." From the satchel at her side she pulled free a small, thin tube with a pointed end, her soft cold hands probing the flesh gently before she cut a small line with one of her knives between two of Jaime's ribs and pressed the tube into the wound. Aedan tore his eyes away from the gory sight of the man's blood seeping out of the little tube and refocused on the man's eyes.

"It's okay, Jaime, we have a healer tending to you. She will get you back into walking condition so you can get back to camp. Just talk to me."

"They were too many, too fast. We didn't even know they were upon us until it was too late. Everyone else is dead. I tried to circle around, to get back toward milord's group further west. One of the bugger's stray arrows split me open though...sodding darkspawn." Aedan felt the strange unnerving tingle of Neria's magic wash over him as he hands glowed a light blue and the wound began to stitch itself back together. The nobleman glanced at the dainty elf beside him and forced himself not to shudder at the blue that glowed through her eyes. There was something about that sight that felt _wrong_ and for a moment the warrior understood why normal people were afraid of mages. People shouldn't be able to do the things Neria and Daylen could do with their magic. He shook the Chantry bigotry out of his mind. If she wasn't here, Jaime would be dead.

"It's okay, Jaime. You need to get back to the encampment, make a report. They need to know what they face, anything you saw can help the effort."

"Thank you, Messere," gasped Jaime as the healing blue glow ebbed away like the sea at low tide. "And thak you, milady," added the scout as Aedan helped the man stand despite his wincing. Moving slowly, but just as silent as ever, Jaime disappeared into the trees and Aedan turned back to their group, coming face to face with Ser Jory's panicked expression

"Did you hear that? A whole company of experienced soldiers killed by darkspawn," muttered the knight, his entire being absolutely quivering with fear.

"Calm down, Ser Jory. They won't overwhelm us if we're careful," urged Alistair, his own voice as serene as Neria's normally was.

"Those men were _careful. _How many darkspawn can the ten of us take down? A few dozen? A hundred? There's a whole _army_ of them in this swamp!" Aeden could _hear_ Kallian and Faren roll their eyes at the tall heavy set knight in his shining steel plate.

"We are in no danger of running into the horde," assured Alistair, drawing curious eyes to the young Warden.

"How do you know?" demanded Ser Jory, trying to lock down his evident fear. "I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should head back."

"You sound like a coward to me," snapped Kallian with hard, glowering eyes.

"We are _far_ from helpless here, Ser Jory," added Aedan diplomatically stepping between the frightened knight and the glowering city elf as the man's head snapped toward her sharp voice. "We will be fine."

"I...am simply trying to stay alive," countered Jory, with a hot glare for the short elf behind Aedan. "You do not see me fleeing, do you?"

"Probably because you know you couldn't get far in that armour," muttered Faren under his breath, earning himself a silencing glare from Aedan. It would do no one no good if they fell apart before they even encountered any darkspawn.

"A bit of fear isn't unnatural," counselled Alistair. "Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know _I_ don't." Aedan didn't allow himself to smile at his long estranged friend's diplomacy.

"Let's just get this over with," barked Theron's gravelly voice, the Dalish and the Denerim thief having returned from their quick patrol and both men clearly not wanting to linger while Ser Jory regained himself. Alistair looked back at Ser Jory, his face calm as he spoke.

"Know this; Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprised. _That_ is why I'm here." Aedan noticed Alistair's eyes glancing toward Daylen momentarily, the mage shuffling nervously behind Neria and Faren.

"You see, ser knight?" smirked Daveth, the Denerim born commoner perfectly composed in the face of danger. "We might die, but we'll be warned about it first."

"That's...reassuring?" grumbled the knight, shaking his head, clearly shamed a lowborn thief showed more courage than he. By the Maker, the crazy city elf and the Carta thug were completely unperturbed by the looming threat of darkspawn. Theron and Sereda both had shrugged off any fear they had, redirecting toward their determination. Even the mages, the most coddled out of their group, having never so much as stepped a toe out of the Circle of Magi since childhood were not as noticeably fearful as Ser Jory. Sure, Neria looked a little paler than usual, but she set her mouth into a hard line, Daylen beside her rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen up the muscles that had tensed with adrenaline so he could wield his heavy staff correctly. How did a knighted man like Jory crumble so easily in the face of adversary?

Aedan shook the wonderings from his mind, falling in behind Alistair and Sereda as they marched toward the ruins that were finally beginning to show through the mist. Cat beside him was tense, his ears alert for sounds Aedan couldn't pick up. Both he and the Dalish hunter's wolf growled at the same time Alistair barked his warning and Aedan had his first taste of combat against monsters crafted from the nightmares of children.

The excited chitters were chilling, an instinctual fear of the things that whisper in the shadows curled up in Aedan's stomach, but he forced it down with the bile. They were men, skin oily and tar like, faces melted, mutated and wrong. Their eyes were black as night, no light of a soul behind those dark orbs that were altogether too close for the warrior's liking. He slammed his shield up into the jaw of the hurlock with all his strength, knocking the beast down as Cat ripped out its throat. Its screams were somehow even worst than the excited chittering.

Instincts took over from Aedan's numbed mind and he could almost feel the darkspawn on the field. To his right a stocky gunlock raised its axe before it hurtled back, an arrow stuck right through its eye, embedding on the other side of its skull with an nearly inaudible thud. To his left, Sereda let out a guttural war cry, swinging her huge great-axe with a strength hidden by the soft curves of a dwarven princess.

Aedan turned and blocked the sword of another hurlock, barely taking time to register the ice that held the beast's feet to the mud before he drove his father's sword into the creature's mouth. He turned in an arc to slice through the genlock that had tried to flank him, only to find the sickeningly dwarven looking darkspawn spitting out black blood as Kallian danced back away from the fray with a shrill laugh, her face flushed with battle ardour.

It was ten horrifying minutes he could barely remember. Lightning burning a hurlock from the inside out as the beast screamed as its blood boiled out from its eyes. The spray of tainted blood as Sereda carved one of the creatures in two. Faren jumping on to the back of a hurlock that had nearly gotten under Alistair's guard, stabbing it with quick, lethal strikes. A haze of fur as the wolf bounded pass Aedan for a genlock. The whizz of arrows that never seemed to hit him, even if he could feel the air push against his ear. And then, silence, deafening silence as his mind came back to his body.

"Hold still, Daylen Fausten Amell, or Andraste help me, I will freeze you in place!" Aedan turned at Neria's loss of composure to see her bent over a stilled Daylen, his face contorted in pain, an arrow rising from his shoulder. "I need to push the arrow through, Daylen," explained Neria in soothing tones. "It's going to hurt, but it will do more damage if I yank it out the way it came."

"Maker's saggy bullocks," swore the mage as the healer turned him on his side with the help of Faren. Kallian pressed a strap of leather from her belt between his teeth and managed a smile for him.

"I like you gagged and quiet, Amell," smirked the elf.

"Fuck you, Kalli- ANDRASTE'S FUCKING BOUNCING TITS!" screamed the mage as Neria pushed the arrow through and snapped the arrowhead off. She pulled the shaft back out quickly, with steady hands and Aedan felt his stomach flip a little at the sight. If he had never seen battle before he was sure he would have hurled his breakfast right back onto his boots. One look at Alistair said the blond man was feeling much the same. Theron and Sereda had left them to tend to the mage while they filled up small glass vials of the black, sticky blood. Daveth and Jory just seemed to be in shock they were even alive after that skirmish.

Aedan averted his eyes, still unable to shake the feeling of _wrongness_ that emanated off Neria when her eyes shone blue like that. He didn't like thinking about the sweet elf as something dangerous, but she was - they all were - and yet, her magic made him more uncomfortable than Aedan had thought it would.

He had never been a particularly good Andrastian. He whored and drank and brawled like any superfluous second son to a highborn lord. Yet, it was moments like these he could almost hear the Chant.

* * *

"Well, shit fucking balls cunt!" shouted Kallian, kicking the shattered chest angrily.

"It's...empty," sighed Neria, sounding as tired as Aedan felt. The darkspawn had been a hard fight, and this was only a small token force. He could scarcely imagine the horde that was slowly descending upon them from the south.

"Well, well, well," laughed a sultry voice behind them, making every single one of them whirl around, brandishing weapons. A woman walked toward them, completely unfazed by the bloodied weapons brandished before her, one eyebrow arched up in amusement as she smirked at them. "What have we here?"

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" slinked the black haired woman, her yellow eyes as sharp as Kallian's words or Theron's arrows. She wore clothes Aedan had never seen before and he couldn't help that his eyes wandered down the plunging neckline of her - well, shirt, for lack of a better term - before they snapped right back up to her sardonic smile. "A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?"

She looked each of them in the eye, as if measuring something about them that only she could see in those depths. Her eyes fell on Neria finally, as if registering something about the white haired elf she recognised. "What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?"

"Intruder?" barked Theron, scathingly, stepping between the mage and the raven haired woman protectively. "And just how are these _your_ Wilds, _shemlen_?"

The woman laughed, a harsh, grating sound that held no mirth.

"I know them as only one to whom they belong would, hunter," retorted the woman, lazily. "I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go,' I wondered, "why are they here?' And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer her," ordered Alistair, his face hard. "She looks Chasind and that means others may be nearby."

"You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" mocked the strange woman with a harsh laugh.

"Yes. Swooping is bad," muttered Alistair.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is!" shouted Daveth, his bow pulled taut, but his arrow shaking with fear. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds?" laughed the woman, shaking her head at the frightened men. "Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" Her eyes scoured them again, making Aedan feel unclean as her piercing yellow glare passed over him to the dwarven woman that stood beside him.

"You there, dwarf. Women do not cower like little boys, and you have nothing to fear from any witch" smirked the woman, as Sereda held her gaze with those amethyst eyes of hers. "Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be _civilised_."

"I am Aeducan Sereda," answered Sereda with a nod. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Now _that_ is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" pounced Alistair, suspicious of the swamp witch. Aedan could see Daylen's hard glare boring into the back of Alistair's head. It was a surprise he didn't spontaneously combust with the battlemage's fiery glare. "You stole them, didn't you? You're...some kind of...sneaky...witch-thief!"

"How very eloquent," mocked Morrigan with her ever-present smirk. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily it seems. Those documents belong to the Grey Wardens, and I suggest you return them."

"I shall not," scoffed Morrigan with a wave. "For t'was not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer, if you wish; I am not threatened."

"Then, who removed them?" questioned Aedan, before Alistair could say something as stupid as _sneaky witch-thief_ again.

"T'was my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?" sighed Kallian, rolling her eyes at everyone's pointless posturing. She had long since sheathed her wicked looking daggers and just stood with her arms crossed over her chest and tapping her foot impatiently.

"There is a sensible request," smiled Morrigan, approvingly. "I like you."

"Be careful," cautioned Alistair with a hurried whisper. "First it's, 'I like you...' but then, _zap_! Frog time."

"She'll put us in the pot, she will!" cried Daveth and both Neria and Daylen visibly rolled their eyes at the rogue. Aedan kept his own discomfit quiet, not wanting to let his discomfit bleed over to the mages. It wasn't their fault people like himself and the Denerim thief were afraid of magic.

"If the pot's warmer than this swamp, it'd be a nice change," grumbled Ser Jory, trying to wipe the black blood and green mud off his armour. Aedan actually smiled at the nonplussed knight as they began to follow Morrigan deeper into the swamp. It seemed they each had their own strengths and weaknesses and Aedan felt shamed for having judged the Redcliffe knight so quickly for his fear of the darkspawn. Aedan was not without his own fears; fears Ser Jory would scoff at.


	15. Ir Him Din'an

**Ir Him Din'an**

_Look, regular update! I hope I've gotten inside Theron's head enough...it's hard to get inside someone as isolated as he seems to make himself, but I gave it a try. Anyways, thank you all for your kind words, and enjoy the chapter._

_Ir Him Din'an is the best I could do with "I am become death" which is the best possible quote I can think of when it comes to the Wardens._

* * *

There was something unnervingly ancient about the magic that clung to Morrigan. Theron could see with a glance the two bound mages of the shemlen Circle could feel the same electricity that crackled through the Veil around the witch, however, it was their scholarly curiosity that won out against that instinctual dread pooling in their stomachs. They had never come across an apostate before - to their knowledge, anyway.

Keeper Marethari, and Merrill, too, for that matter, were adept at masking their magic around outsiders. It was how the Dalish could keep out of the Chantry's gaze for so long; a near impossible feat for a people led by mages for generations. Outsiders saw the Keeper as a chieftain of sorts, a keeper of ancient, heathen lore, language and religion, but not necessarily as mages. Perhaps the ignorance was wilful; the Chantry refusing to believe they had allowed mages to walk about their lands uncollared. Perhaps the deceit was just one of the People's greatest achievements since the fall of the Dales.

Beside the hunter, Atisha's ears turned forward, alerted to a sound Theron couldn't pick out of the swamp's natural sound for another few hundred metres. Singing. The words melted over his sunkissed skin, making the hair on his arms rise. The words spoke of _home, _deep down in the blood that coursed through his veins. It was elven, but words he could barely recognise, with meanings he couldn't possibly know. The accent was foreign, not at all the way his clan spoke the Old Tongue, nor the way any other clan he had ever encountered spoke the few words they had saved throughout centuries of slavery and cultural genocide.

Smoke wafted through the trees, heavy with fragrant herbs native to these Wilds. The wood was old, long dead, with little to none of the acrid burning stench of freshly cut firewood. No, this was an old place and as the hut came into view he saw a very old shemlen woman straighten up from her cooking pot and watch them with sharp, yellow eyes that were at once younger than her face and much, much older.

It took a lot of willpower for the Dalish to force his feet to keep moving.

"Mother, I bring before you Grey Wardens who-"

"I have eyes," croaked the old woman, cutting through her daughter's words like a well-honed blade. Her ancient golden eyes looked over them like she was valuing meat at a market as she walked slowly around them, circling them like a wolf circles an injured halla. The woman's gaze made both Theron itch for his bow and fight the need to bend his knees. He would not bow to some old shemlen mage. "Hmmmm...much as I expected.

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us," scoffed Alistair and Theron's eyes shot to the shemlen mage-hunter. Could the fool who spent his life training to fight magic not _feel_ the air around him shifting around this very powerful woman?

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," smirked the old witch. "Close one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide...either way one is a fool!" Her eyes rested on Daveth who backed up under the weight of her gaze.

"She's a witch, I tell you!" pleaded Daveth. "We shouldn't be talking to her."

"Shut up," spat Ser Jory, clearly as afraid of the old woman as the mouthy shemlen thief. "If she really is a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

"Smart boy," smiled the old woman, half muttering to herself, as though she expected a response either from within or without. "Sadly irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

"And, what of you?" questioned the old woman, her tone switching sharply as she locked eyes with Theron. Those piercing yellow eyes scoured the intricate leaves of Mythal that etched their path over his eye and down his cheek. The vallaslin seemed to burn and itch under that heavy gaze. "Does your Dalish mind give you a different perspective? What do you believe?"

"I...do not know what I believe," managed Theron, surprising himself. He was ready to tell her that he believed in the Creators, the gods of his people they had managed to keep the names of since the fall of Arlathan; one of whom's mark was branded to his face. His tongue betrayed his mind, however, but the woman smiled with a kind of motherly pride at that.

"A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies," grinned the old woman. "Be always aware, or is it oblivious...I can never remember..."

"This is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?" muttered the black skinned dwarf that stood on the other side of Kallian to Theron. The Dalish elf hadn't even realised he had been standing next to the thorny flat-ear this whole time. She sneered at his stare and he shook his head, looking back at the old woman's sly smirk.

"Witch of the Wilds?" laughed the woman, a harsh, grating sound. "Did Morrigan tell you that? She loves such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moonlight."

"Mother," snapped Morrigan, her cheeks reddening with her embarrassment. "They did not come here for your wild tales."

"No? I expect they came for their treaties, and before you start barking, your ward wore off long ago. I have protected these," added the woman with a pointed look at the blond Templar as he began to splutter indignantly.

"You- oh, you protected them?" stammered Alistair.

"And why not?" shrugged the old witch. "Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realise."

"How do you know this?" Questioned Sereda from beside Theron, the curvy durgen'lan watching the woman with a cautious eye.

"Do I?" Smiled the old woman, her eyes hooded. "Perhaps I am an old woman with a penchant for mouldy parchments," added the witch with a laugh.

"Thank you for returning them, and for protecting them," managed Neria, her voice quiet, almost reverent as she bowed her head.

"No, child, it is I who must thank you. I cannot stop this Blight after all," smiled Flemeth in a softer tone than she had been speaking in...even old witches couldn't seem to dislike Neria.

"Time for you to go," declared Morrigan, crossing her arms over her mostly exposed chest.

"Don't be ridiculous, girl," scowled the old woman. "These are you guests." The raven haired woman sighed, stalking past them like a haughty cat.

"Very well. I will show you the way back to your camp." Theron's elven hearing did not miss her dark muttering about useless city-born Wardens losing their way through a blighted forest.

* * *

Once they made it back to the encampment, Theron rolled his eyes at the nervous Templar as he tried to report the apostates living out in the Wilds. He felt himself smile as the Warden-Commander shut that topic down swiftly with a gentle reprimand the blond shemlen no longer worked on behalf of the Chantry. He had no problem with Neria or Amell using their magic in battle. Theron wondered why two women who kept to themselves warranted his ire for being no more or less what Neria and Amell were...surely he didn't have the observation skill to notice this old apostate was more than what she appeared.

Duncan had directed them into a half ruined chamber of the ancient temple, still humming with the dormant magic of long dead Tevinter magisters. The air vibrated with the power of their blood magic, the lost souls of their sacrifices pressing against the Veil in anguish.

The city elf sat cross legged, playing with her daggers in a game of dexterity that Theron was loathe to admit impressed the Dalish hunter. She was well trained for a slave. Daren watched her with a gleeful smile, his dark eyes watching those sharp blades intensely. Neria was fiddling with the loose threads of her sleeves as her shemlen friend moved over to her, running his arms intimately up and down her arms making the elf girl smile in gratitude. The shemlen nobleman sat with his dog's head in his lap and a damp rag in his hand, wiping dried blood off the beast's fur with a careful eye. Sereda stood beside Theron, arms folded and eyes closed, silent and calm like stone. Ser Jory paced, drawing glares from the city-born _pil'arelin_, Daveth.

"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," muttered Jory, half to himself.

"By Andraste's lacy smalls, are you blubbering again?" sneered Kallian, eyes wicked and unforgiving.

"Why all these damned secrets?" Demanded Jory, hotly, making the sharp tongued elf roll her eyes. "Have I not earned my place?"

So like a shemlen, thought Theron in disgust. Believing themselves entitled to anything they worked for, never once considering that perhaps a group as exclusive as the Grey Wardens may expect more than a sharp sword and a suit of heavy armour.

"Maybe it's tradition," shrugged Brosca, watching the tall shemlen with an unreadable expression. "Maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

"Calm down, Ser Jory," said Cousland, not looking up from his task of cleaning the Mabari. "We are all a little nervous."

"All I know is my wife is in Highever, milord, about to give birth. If they had warned me...I...it just doesn't seem fair."

"Fucking shems," spat Kallian, her face murderous. "You _chose_ to leave your pregnant wife to go chase glory, you twat sandwich. No one forced you."

"Would you have come if they warned you?" Interjected Sereda, opening one violet eye to watch the knight. "Maybe that is why they don't. The Wardens do what they must to stop the darkspawn."

"Including sacrificing us?!" Shouted Jory, indignant like a child being told _no_ for the first time.

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if it meant ending the Blight," declared Daveth. Theron nodded once in agreement with the shemlen, as did most of the other recruits, for that matter. The dwarves nodded much more emphatically. No one knew the devastation the darkspawn caused more than the two durgen'len.

"Exactly," cheered Brosca, shooting the rogue a smile. "Try not to wet your trousers, Ser Knight, over the ritual."

"I've just...never faced a foe I could not engage with my sword," sighed the heavy set shemlen and Kallian snorted at that, sheathing her blades as the Warden-Commander approached, Alistair not far behind him. Everyone rose or straightened their backs at Duncan's arrival and Theron's eyes landed on Alistair carrying an ancient silverite goblet behind his commander.

"At last," sighed Duncan, his melancholic voice making Theron's innards tense up. "We come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the brink of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their Taint."

Silence; an impenetrable shroud of quiet befell the nine recruits as they absorbed that revelation. Theron wasn't sure how to believe that ingesting more of the stuff was going to save his life. Neria looked faint, her cheeks devoid entirely of colour. Brosca and Sereda shook their heads, disbelievingly. Kallian, Amell and Cousland all wore the same comical look of open mouthed shock.

"We...we're going to drink the blood of those..._things_?" gasped Jory, his face pale and nauseous.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you," nodded Duncan in that calm, melancholic voice. "This is the source of our power and our victories."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the Taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon," added Alistair by way of explanation. His face was pitying as he looked over the recruits, and Theron felt suspicion cool in his stomach. There was something they weren't sharing.

"We speak only a few words prior to the ritual," continued Duncan, keeping his emotions behind his calm demeanour. "These words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you will."

"Join us, brothers and sisters," began Alistair, bowing his head in a mixture of respect and sadness, uttering the words like a prayer into the night. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. Should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that, one day, we shall join you."

"Daveth," began Duncan, turning with the silverite goblet in his hands, eyes somber. "Step forth." He passed the cup to the shemlen thief and after a moment's hesitation Daveth steeled himself, taking the goblet in two hands. He drank a mouthful of the ominously black blood within and Theron watched the man, his face not betraying the fear and dread pooling in his stomach. Duncan took the cup, stepping back...watching for something.

Daveth let out a blood curdling scream that made Neria and Amell jump back with shock. The man fell to his knees in obvious agony, clawing at his throat as his eyes rolled back into his head. Theron and the others watched in stunned horror as the man writhed in pain before collapsing just as suddenly, dead.

"Maker's breath," whispered Jory, his earlier fear rising at the horror of the other man's death.

"I am sorry, Daveth," apologised Duncan, allowing the pain of the man's passing to show. Theron wondered how many the bearded Warden-Commander had watched die in this fashion. Without hesitation the Warden turned to Ser Jory. "Step forward, Jory."

"But..." Theron watched as the man unsheathed his sword - the fool. "I have a wife...a child...had I known..."

"There is no turning back," warned Duncan, his voice dangerous as he stepped toward the foolish shemlen knight.

"No! You ask too much," accused Jory, pointing his sword at the Warden-Commander. "There is no glory in this!" Duncan almost looked sad as he unsheathed one of his own daggers, passing the cup to Alistair. The knight tried foolishly to lunge at the man in that moment, but Duncan was a faster fighter, pivoting under the blow and slicing through the man's throat in one fell swoop.

"I am sorry, Jory," whispered Duncan, closing his eyes as he sheathed his blade. Duncan opened his eyes, locking with Theron's own.

"You are called to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good," murmured Duncan as he passed the cup to Theron. The Dalish hunter took it gingerly in his fingers, refusing to look at its black, sticky contents. _Mythal, protect me_, whispered a reverent voice in his mind as he took a mouthful of the foul, viscous blood and forced himself to swallow. He felt it enter his body, the Taint in his blood singing to its brother and the elf doubled over in pain, a silent scream racking his body before the world went black for the second time in a manner of weeks.


	16. Fuck That

**Fuck. That.**

_And now we delve into Kall__i__an and the best possible mantra for ever really living through this part of the game...fuck...that...as alway__s thankyou for your comments and I hope you enjoy my dabbling with Bioware's stuff_

* * *

Darkness surrounded Kallian like a thick fog, impenetrable. Even as she felt her hands move in front of her face she couldn't see them. Slowly she walked forward, eyes trying to pierce the pitch blackness of her surroundings, ears straining for the slightest sound other than her soft footfalls against..._stone_? It was paved underfoot, a road of some kind, and certainly too smooth to be natural. Kallian felt around for her daggers, uneasy, but found her belt empty. Well, shit.

Sudden brightness blinded the elf and she felt searing heat dance over skin. She rolled away instinctively from the sudden onslaught, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. A dragon, a real honest to the Maker dragon, stared down at her with blood red eyes and the city elf felt fear claw up her throat. She pushed it back down, as she had done many times in her life, scrambling for a loose stone, anything to defend herself from the beast.

Whoever had built this cave -_ is this the sodding Deep Roads?_ \- had done too good a job of it. Not a loose tile or brick to be found, but the elf stood anyway, glaring defiantly at the great dragon above her. She was going to die, but Kallian Mithra Tabris would meet her mother and sister standing. She would not die on her back.

The dragon reared back, it's maw opening wide and Kallian closed her eyes. _Mamae, ma'athlan vhenan_. She felt the flames lick over her skin and she screamed. The elf thrashed, feeling her arms being restrained to her sides by someone else's greater strength. Rough callused hands gripped her face forcing her to open her eyes to a pair of dark whiskey orbs.

"Dandelion, it's okay!" Faren's voice was panicked, but the elf stilled looking up at her dwarven friend, feeling the fear slowly ebb back to where it belonged. "You're here now."

"Fuck. That," whispered Kallian, lying her head back on the cold stone, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She looked down on the hands holding her arms still. Her eyes trailed over long scarred fingers and up lined arms to see Mahariel's forest green eyes watching her like he would a wounded deer.

"You can unhand me." Her tone was sharp and the man released his grip as though burned, looking away from her pointed glare.

"It is good you did not injure yourself," he muttered, moving away to sit by Sereda, the normally golden faced dwarf looking pale where she sat drinking from a flask with shaking hands.

"So it was just some fucked up dream?" asked Kallian, sitting up and accepting a flask from Faren, wrinkling her nose at the smell of whiskey.

"I don't know, Dandelion. Dwarves don't dream, so if that's dreaming you lot can keep it," grumbled Faren, taking a heavy swig of his brew, wiping the dregs from his black beard.

"_That_ was not the Fade." Kallian looked over at Daylen, his usually smiling face hard. His expression was unreadable, but it sent a chill down Kallian's spine. She had no chance to question the mage further as the heavy scrape of metal boots on stone drew the attention of the seven pale, shaken Wardens.

"You are awake," sighed Alistair in relief. In his hands were seven delicate silver chains that he handed to each of the new Wardens with a solemn expression. Kallian accepted hers, studying the tiny griffon detailed in silverite, grasping a small vial of black liquid in its claws. "We take a little of the blood from the Joining and keep it...as a reminder of those who didn't make it this far.

_Creepy_, thought Kallian as she slid the griffon off its thin chain, pulling the leather cord she wore around her neck from under her leathers. _I guess it's a creepy I already subscribed to_, thought Kallian as she slid the vial of darkspawn blood onto the cord to join the wedding rings of her mother and Nelaros. She pressed a chaste, reverent kiss on the two metal bands, offering a silent prayer to two people who gave their lives for hers. _Mar dru'nas tel'banasin'an_.

"You good, Dandelion?" whispered Faren, patting her thigh. The elf managed a weak smile and a nod for her friend, tying the leather cord behind her and tucking her tokens of sacrifice back into her leather jerkin where they rested cool against her heart.

"Ahhh, yes, well, Commander Duncan has asked for Cousland, Aeducan and Tabris to accompany him to a war table meeting with the King and his advisors." Kallian's head snapped up at the mention of her in the Void would Duncan want _her_ in a room full of stuffed shirts she would have just as likely killed any other day?

The others seemed just as surprised by the city elf's inclusion, but Kallian refused to acknowledge their stares as she rose as gracefully as she could manage and followed the shem lordling and the dwarven princess. Duncan nodded at them before leading the way, Kallian trailing behind, dying to ask the man why he had included her. Was she there to represent the elves of the Wardens? Why wouldn't he send Neria? She would be better at this sort of shit than the thorny city elf.

Kallian had to force herself not to turn and flee as they entered the King's war room. There were so many titles floating around the ruined room it made the air thin. The Revered Mother with her silly Chantry hat, some haughty mage in pristine Circle robes, King Cailan in his ridiculous golden armour and to his left...the Hero of River-sodding-Dane himself. The King looked up and smiled, clasping wrists with each of the Wardens.

"I believe congratulations are in order," beamed Cailan as he grasped Kallian's wrist. "Introductions are in order, yes? Revered Mother Evelyn, Senior Enchanter Uldred and Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, may I introduce you to Warden-Commander Duncan Allaway and three Grey Wardens, Aeden Cousland of Highever, Aeducan Sereda of Orzammar and Kallian Tabris of Denerim."

The piercing blue eyes of Loghain fell on Kallian and she felt her ears burning. Surely the hero of the Ferelden Rebellion could see how unworthy she was in such august company. _Solas_, _Kallian. Don't let them think you are any less than they are._ With that, Kallian's green-gold eyes met Loghain's challenge and the elf squared her jaw and shoulders, meeting his stare unblinkingly. _Once, he was nothing more than a farmer's boy with a pitch fork._

"If we might get back to the strategy, Your Majesty?" Loghain's tone was curt, as if he were a parent or tutor trying to curtail the distracted thoughts of a errant child.

"Yes, well I will lead the vanguard with the Grey Wardens." Loghain visibly sighed, running his hand over a aged face that was not at all what Kallian had imagined when her Hahren had told stories of the rebellion. The years of peace had not done the Teyrn any favours.

"Your Majesty, the horde is far too dangerous to risk you on the front lines."

"A king should lead his men from the front, as my father did."

"The Orlesians are not the darkspawn, _Your Majesty_." The words didn't sound as respectful in Loghain's sour tone, but the king waved off his concerns with a wicked, boyish grin.

"If the horde is so dangerous, Loghain, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian reinforcements before we engage." It was partly a barb directed at the old war hero, and partly a sound suggestion. Kallian had all, but melted into the shadows like the elven servants who tended their patrons at the war table. Pointed ears we as good as invisibility to the shems.

"Again with your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves," grumbled Loghain in a tone not many would dare with Cailan, but Teyrn Mac Tir was not one of many. He had tutored the boy in strategy and swordplay along with King Maric. He was the King's godfather and the father of his Queen. He was more uncle than subject.

"It is not a _fool notion_. Our arguments with the Orlesians is a thing of the past," argued Cailan, his tone clipped and clinical. The political savvy of a royal scion showing through his usual puppy-like attitude. "And you will _remember_ who is King."

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century," snapped Loghain, heatedly. Glances traded between the others, like visitors caught in an awkward family argument with nowhere to escape.

"Then, our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" snapped back Cailan, not remotly off put by Loghain's temper when all Kallian wanted to do was be swallowed up by the earth before his ire found the invisible city elf who had no place at a war table, let alone a noble's family argument. "Duncan, are your men ready?"

"They are, Your Majesty," answered Duncan, not letting anything else show through that calm demeanor of his. _How did he keep it all stoppered like that? Perhaps the Warden-Commander was one of them, like Sereda and Cousland,_ mused Kallian. He _belonged_ here.

"Fantasic. The Grey Wardens and I will draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then?" The King looked to Loghain who had taken the time to calm his temper. The old commander looked over the topographical maps of Ostagar, the lines and notes making about as much sense to Kallian as the Valendrian did when he started waxing philosophical with his students.

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my cavalry to charge from cover." Loghain's cavalry had been the Ferelden answer to Orlesian chevaliers during the rebellion. Once they had been farmers who had ridden horses to patrol their fields or drive carts to market, now they were as true a knight as any chevalier and quite famous in the Free Marches for their lancers, where the won as often as Orlais did in the great tourneys. Ferelden Forders had since become famous throughout Thedas, even Empress Celine is said to have breeding stock of the hardy Ferelden horses for the colder climes of Emprise De Lion.

"Yes, and flank the darkspawn, I remember. This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, right?" The man pointed to some other squiggly lines that everyone else seemed to recognise and Kallian couldn't make heads or tails of. _I bet that asshat, Mahariel, could read these sodding maps_, grumbled a spiteful voice in Kallian's mind she chose to ignore. "Who shall light this beacon?"

"I have a few men stationed there," shrugged Loghain. "It is hardly a dangerous task, but it is vital."

"Then, we send our best. Duncan," the King looked up at the bearded Warden-Commander, a lot more passing between the two than just words, "send Wardens Alistair, Faren and Kallian to make sure it is done." The elf's head snapped up at the sound of her name. She wanted to protest being sent on a fucking _errand_, instead of fighting like she should be. She was a Warden, now, dammit, not some lordling's errand elf.

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much, Your Majesty," cautioned Loghain. "Is that really wise?"

"Enough with the conspiracies, Loghain," sighed the King, shaking his head. "The Wardens fight the Blight, no matter where they are from."

"Your Majesty," interrupted Duncan with a respectful nod of his head, "you should prepare for the likelihood of the Archdemon appearing-"

"There have been no sightings of dragons in the Wilds," added Loghain, pointedly.

"That is what your men are here for, Warden-Commander?" shrugged Cailan and Duncan dropped the subject with bow.

"Your Majesty," the mage - _Uldred, was it? What a horrendous name_ \- stood up with a flourish of his over neat robes. "The tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of - "

"We will not trust our lives to your spells, _mage_," spat the Revered Mother, and Kallian decided that the Revered Mother of Denerim was, to put it simply, a cunt. And her big hat was stupid. "Save them for the darkspawn."

"Enough," barked Loghain. "This plan will suffice; the Wardens light the beacon." King Cailan beamed like a child and Kallian could see another speech about glory waiting on his lips , her ears blocking out the noise of his silly, childish voice.

Once they returned to the Wardens and imparted the King's orders, Alistair was complaining about theirs to sit around in some sodding tower with ale and biscuits watching the battle like a family on tourney day.

"I won't be in the battle, but Duncan -"

"This is by the King's personal order, Alistair," reprimanded the calm man as Alistair sulked. She hated to admit it, but she agreed with the silly Templar. It chafed she had been taken off the front lines to run an errand, and the elf could see it irked her dwarven friend, too. _Bronto shit_ had been his very apt response to the orders.

"Alright, but if he wants me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I am drawing the line," muttered Alistair and their groups snickered - except for Mahariel, of course. Even if the dour man had a sense of humour, he probably didn't know what the Remigold was anyway.

"You have some very odd ideas about the King," commented Neria, shaking her head as her shoulders shook.

"I think it would be an _excellent_ distraction," added Faren with a wicked grin.

"What? Me, shimmying down the front line? The darkspawn wouldn't know what to think," smirked Alistair as Duncan sighed like a harried father.

"Alistair, you, Faren and Kallian will head over the bridge to the Tower, Theon, Daylen and Neria will accompany you as far as the bridge to join the King's archers and the other magi. Aeden and Sereda, you will be with me in the vanguard, under the command of my Second, Mathurian. Meet with him within the hour." The Warden-Commander turned to leave.

"Good luck, Duncan," managed Alistair and the man nodded at the young ex-Templar.

"And to you, Alistair?"

There were a round of farewells between the new Wardens who had travelled together for weeks, some longer than others. Neria had tears running down her face as she embraced them all in turn, even Faren who looked rather uncomfortable with the affectionate hug of the tiny elven mage.

"Please, don't die."

"They'll be fine, Neri, don't worry about her; a right mother hen, she is," managed Daylen with a wavering smile that betrayed his own fears as he traded wrist clasps.

Even Aeden wished Kallian luck with a firm wrist clasp and the elf managed not to spit in his face for it. Theron surprised her the most, however.

"_Nuva_ _mar'shos'lahn'en ir'tel'dera Fen'Harel_," murmured the Dalish man as he clasped her wrist firmly.

"_Nuva mar'vena'ava'en ir'tel'odhe is," _replied Kallian, as if second nature, her own surprise written on the Dalish hunter's face before he let himself smile, a quick, almost unseen thing that made the city elf even more confused than before.

"That went somewhere very...elfy, Dandelion," mused Faren, looking at her sideways as the walked beside Alistair.

"Yeah...I...don't actually know how to answer that not-question, Shorty." Faren left it alone, for which Kallian was grateful. It was _weird_.

The scene from the bridge was distraction enough. The men below chanted war cries into the darkness as the all watched the darkspawn horde gathering at the edge of the Wilds. Kallian didn't have words in Common or Elven for the sheer _size_ of the army of darkspawn ahead. She just gaped open mouthed, wishing to whatever Gods were listening - _the Maker, the Creators, The Old Gods, who gives a shit right now_ \- they would live to see the sun rise.

Below she could pick out the golden armour of the King, but not hear the words that made his soldiers cheer. The first volley of...well, darkspawn artillery, apparently, hit the back ranks and the bridge.

"We have to move!" shouted Alistair and the three left the archers and mages on the bridge to run for the tower that loomed out of the debris ahead.

The ground shook underfoot, making Kallian run like a toddler with uneven legs, just chanting over and over in head; "Don't you dare fucking fall down, Kallian Mithra Tabris! You do not fall the fuck down!"

Finally they were free of flaming boulders dipped in peat and Faren was laughing breathlessly.

"What?" snapped Kallian as the dwarf tried unsuccessfully to catch his breath.

"I love your self-motivation, Dandelion, is all. Ancestors you sound like my sister yelling at yourself there." Her ears burned hot, and no doubt the colour of roasted beets as even Alistair chuckled before promptly trying to find anywhere else to look, but Kallian's dangerous glare.

"Maker," breathed the man as a mage ran up to them.

"Thank Andraste you've arrived. The darkspawn are in the Tower! They just started bubbling out of the ground...I...we were overwhelmed!" _So much for not fighting_, thought Kallian as she unsheathed her daggers and grinned.

"The Maker's heard you, Alistair," beamed Kallian as she ran ahead, her natural speed far greater than the tall man's longer stride.

"This is not the silver lining I was really expecting, Tabris!"

* * *

_Well...that is fucking huge!_

An immature part of Kallian's manic brain decided to chuckle at that comment. Wasted. Seriously, though, whatever in the Void that giant grey skinned, horned beast was, small was not the operative word.

"By the stone balls of the Ancestors," swore Faren as he dodged its charge, missing those great horns by a hair's breadth. The dwarf rolled with his motion, throwing one the small knives from his belt at the creature's leg. It didn't even notice the wound dripping black blood as it bared its teeth at Alistair, swiping at the man's shield. He barely deflected the blow, the sound echoing through the rooftop chamber.

"Maker's breath," gasped Alistair as he rolled out of the ogre's way, the fucking thing charging - again. "There wasn't _supposed_ to be any resistance!"

"You could try telling it, that it's in the wrong place!" shouted Kallian as she threw at grenade at the beast where it had stuck its horns into the plasterboard walls, just missing the scrawny, very terrified mage they had brought along.

"Right, because clearly this is just a misunderstanding!" retorted Alistair as he deflected another heavy paw, swiping his word over its hamstrings in a counterattack.

"We'll laugh about it later, I'm sure, Spike!" called Faren as he weaved under the beasts great legs, attacking with a speed most wouldn't expect of the stout man.

"_Fenedhis_, just kill the fucker already!" shouted Kallian as she danced back out of reach of those clawed hands. She watched in horror as the creature grabbed the mage, who hadn't moved as fast as the elven rogue and ripped the man's arms clean off. Bile rose to her throat, but Kallian pushed it down, deep down, with the fear that kept her constant company since she was seven.

"_Fen'Harel ver na!"_ screamed Kallian as she launched herself at the beast. It was like time had slowed as she flew toward the creature and its head swivelled, beady little eyes locking with her. It reached for her, but her daggers landed in its throat before it could grasp the tiny projectile elf. The beast staggered back under her and Kallian wasted no time twisting her daggers free and burying them deep in the beasts eyes as it howled in agony. They fell together, careening to the solid stone beneath and Kallian rolled with the landing, using the momentum to pull her daggers free of its thick skull. It twitched for a moment or two, not realising it was dead yet, before it finally stilled.

Alistair ran to the beacon, swearing about missing the signal as Faren patted Kallian on the back.

"Well, shit, you're now the scariest person I know Dandelion. I gotta write Rita."

* * *

_T/N - __Mamae, ma'athlan vhenan - Mother, call me home (to your heart, basically, seems fitting for times when you're about to be served a la carte to a dragon)_

_Mar dru'nas tel'banasin'an - Your sacrifice will not be forgotten (cos Kalli is super sentimental and dramatic like that)_

_Solas - pride, but also stand tall/with pride_

_Nuva_ _mar'shos'lahn'en ir'tel'dera Fen'Harel - May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps (its a good luck elf thing)_

_Nuva mar'vena'ava'en ir'tel'odhe is - May he never catch your scent (the other half of that statement, said in response)_

_Fenedhis - hehehehe wolf dick (I'm a child I know, but not that much different from how Italian uses cazzo)_

_Fen'Harel ver na - Dread Wolf take you (yeah, that's an average insult, but trust me Kallian will get much more creative with her pretty decent elven...her mother was the daughter of a Keeper, after all, and probably a notorious potty mouth. SHe certainly didn't get it from Cyrion)_


	17. Benedictions and Trials

**Benedictions and Trials**

_Named as such since the whole thing runs the lines of Neria's internal praying and chanting of both the Canticles of Benedictions and Canticles of Trials, because I think the devout Andrastian would probably be praying during such a frightening, traumatic and sad part of her life. Once again, most things are Bioware's, except those that aren't. _

_Also yes, I am terrible with spelling and remembering Aedan's name..I'm sorry for that. I will probably get eye colours wrong, too and other such details, but I will try to remember to read back and make sure it all adds up._

* * *

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

The screams of the dying pressed against the Veil, drawing spirits toward their fear and bravery in equal measure. Neria could feel Duty as close to her as it had been in the Tower, closer than even when she healed. She allowed the spirit to empty her mind of the fear, of the nausea that rose in her stomach at the amount of pain she could feel from those around her. The spirit had one goal, one purpose and it helped to keep the mage focused on the problems in front of her. She was the healer, and that was her Duty.

"Mahariel, I have only so much bloody fire!" shouted Daylen, draining his fourth bottle of lyrium, her hands shaking from the exhaustion and a small overdose of the dangerously addictive potion.

"They should have lit the signal fire by now," grunted Theron as he drew a pair of matching Dar'Misu from a sheath on his back, casting the empty quiver and useless bow aside as he leapt into battle beside his wolf. The darkspawn had broken through the ranks, flanking them from the Wilds and the mages and archers were barely keeping the beasts off the bridge as it was. Down below Neria could feel the battle ebbing and flowing between both sides.

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

"They've lit it!" shouted Neria, drawing the eyes of those around her to the signal shining from the tower. Looking over at Daylen, the mage smiled and she looked down at the battlefield below where she could easily see the King in his golden armour, and Sereda as the shortest warrior with the largest weapon and grinned. They were saved.

A mournful horn echoed over the battlefield and her stomach fell out from under her as she felt the dread as it washed over the soldiers. Their fear echoed through Veil, into the Fade and into Duty's spirit. Retreat.

"_Ban'duin_," growled Theron as he cut the head off his opponent. The gore didn't even leave an impression on Neria as the choking fear swept over her. A scream of pain echoed through the Fade and brought the mage to her knees, Daylen running to her aid.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow_.

She could see it all as though through her own eyes, but the perspective was all wrong, the earth too far below her. She was tall, arms burning from holding a shield and sword, exhaustion trying to claim her as she pressed a boot to a hurlock's face and ripped her bloodied sword free of its armour, the beast falling to the ground unceremoniously.

"Aedan, he's sounded the retreated! Loghain isn't coming!" That was Sereda's voice, laboured and hoarse.

A roar drew her attention to the right and a monstous creature standing ten feet tall charged past them, the two warriors rolling out of its path. Fear gripped her as she watched, helplessly shocked as the beast grabbed a glittering, golden armoured man in its paws and unceremoniously ripped the King in half, the renting of his armour loud enough to be heard over the sounds of clashing swords and dying screams.

"Retreat!" called Duncan as he raced past, swords drawn and bathed in sticky black blood.

_In their blood the Maker's will is written._

"Neria!" Daylen's voice pulled Neria from...whatever in Andraste's name _that_ was. His hands gripped her shoulders tightly, his dark eyes lined with fear as he tried to get her to look at him. Around them the darkspawn were surging, starting to break through the defense of the mages and archers.

"The King is dead," she whispered, horrified. She looked up at her friend who seemed stunned to stillness. It was Therons who brought both mages back to reality.

_Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide._

"We have to move!" He grabbed them both, hoisting them up with a strength Neria hadn't expected of the wiry hunter. His wolf launched ahead of them as he shoved the mages forward, ripping out a genlock's throat.

Darkspawn everywhere, it was all Neria could do to launch ice spell after ice spell, trying to ignore her fear, her exhaustion, trying to keep a hold of Duty through her shock. The battlefield was no place for a mage like her. She could feel every blow resonating through the Fade, as if it landed on her person, as if it were her own death she were feeling. How could she possibly survive dying countless times?

"Come on Neri, please, stay with me," begged Daylen as he lauched lightning at a group of genlock archers, making their stout, grotesque bodies dance and lurch in agony. She held on to her friend, to his voice and his arm with enough strength to bruise his forearm. He was the only thing keeping her on her feet as the pain and death kept flowing over her, wave after wave, like drowning alone in a dark, stormy ocean.

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

A roar echoed over the ruins, stopping all other sounds for a moment as a dragon flew over the bridge. _This is it. The Archdemon...this is how I die_, whispered the small voice of Neria through the sea of pained cries. She had no strength left to battle such a beast, just as terrifying as it had been in that vision after the Joining. Was it prophecy?

Flames roared out of its gaping maw, roasting the darkspawn who blocked their retreat from the bridge. It turned its great yellow eyes to them, and Neria felt sure she had seen those amber eyes before. It lifted into the air with a grace not possible of such a creature and flew in the direction of the Tower of Ishal.

_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing he has wrought shall be lost._

"Mythal won't grant us another chance. We have to go, now!" ordered Theron as he pushed the mages again, throwing a dagger at a hurlock who charged too close. Duty forced Neria's feet forward and soon she was running, Daylen's hand in her own, Theron's quiet footfalls behind them, the wolf ahead, clearing their path of stragglers.

The sounds of battle faded behind them, along with the comforting presence of Duty and the nauseating pain and fear of men and spirits both trapped at Ostagar. Neri stumbled over gnarled roots in the dim light of the dark swamp, her robes torn, hands scratched by thorns and thickets. Breath clawed at her chest as it tried to get out, but she couldn't stop running, not if she wanted to live and she followed the insistent pull of Daylen's hand.

_I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here._

"Please...Mahariel," gasped Daylen, clearly as out of breath as Neria herself. "We have...to stop...or...I swera...I'm gonna...just die."

The Dalish elf had sped ahead of the mages, a body built and trained to run, to hunt and to endure in ways the mages had not been. He looked over them, a clearly sharp retort on his tongue, but he seemed to see how pale and tired both mages were and nodded once.

"Rest, Atisha and I will take watch. No harm will come to you." With that the Dalish man disappeared into the swamp, no doubt setting up a perimeter with his wolf. Neria wished she had the strength to cast wards around them, but it was all she could do to slump against a tree and slide to the ground. Daylen sat beside her, wrapping his warm arms around her tightly as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I thought I had lost you there, Neria," whispered Daylen into her sweaty silver hair as she closed her eyes and buried her face into the crook of his neck.

"I thought I lost me, too," whispered Neria as she let the quiet tears roll down her face. They were all dead. The soldiers, the King, the Wardens...Sereda with her bright smile, Aeden with his sadness and pride, Faren with his cheeky winks and Kallian and her sharp, rough edges and loving soul...all snuffed out like candles.

"They're all dead, Dayle," whispered Neria as she cried, feeling the black abyss of exhausted sleep tugging at her conciousness. The Maker would be merciful and leave her sleep free of the Fade tonight. Daylen stroked her back soothingly.

"Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky," whispered Daylen and Neria smiled sadly despite herself.

"Rest at the Maker's Right Hand and be Forgiven," ended the elf. "I didn't know you even knew the Chant..."

* * *

"Neria?" Daylen's soft caresses brought the elven mage out of the welcoming embrace of a dreamless sleep and she forced her eyes slowly open. She half-expected to see the bunks of the apprentice quarters in the Tower, but instead above her the branches of the swamp trees rustled with a cool southern breeze. It hadn't all been some horrid trick of the Fade, it had all really happened.

"Where...where's Theron?" croaked Neria as she sat up stiffly from where she had been lying in Daylen's lap, her soft muscles protesting as she stretched with a wince.

"He went to get water. He should be back shortly." A rustling behind them caught their attention. Theron didn't _rustle_, he was silent as a wisp. Neria grabbed one of her surgical knives fearfully. She didn't have the strength to cast, but maybe she could kill like Kallian did with her small daggers. The mage didn't have much hope, but she would try.

Daylen, staff in hand, peered around the tree they sat against and found a sword pressed to his throat, familiar burning blue eyes.

"Cousland?" Neria felt the ground shift beneath her as the sword was pulled back and Aedan Cousland stepped out of the shadow of the tree, grinning almost madly.

"By the Maker," whispered the nobleman, wrapping Daylen up in his arms in a tight embrace that looked downright painful. Daylen barely let out a squeak of protest before he was released and Neria was pulled into the human warrior's too-tight embrace. "I thought you had died."

"Can't...breathe..." managed Neria with what breath she had left in her chest and the man released her, looking sheepish, but still grinning from ear to ear.

"My apologies...I...just...I thought we were alone," sighed the man, his usual melancholy returning with a sting. He had watched a close friend be torn in two by a monster straight out of a minstrel's story.

"We?" asked Daylen, as Neria ran her hands over the man's shoulders in sympathy, wishing she knew a spell to heal the wounds beneath his skin as well as she could heal a cut made by a blade.

"Oh, Sereda!" called Aedan. "It's safe; it's Neria and Daylen."

The dwarven woman was heard before she was seen. The heavy boots of her armour thudding across the muddy ground as she ran into view, her coppery hair crusted with black blood and a nasty burn bubbled the skin over her jaw, down her neck and disappeared into the charred chestplate of her armour.

"The Ancestors be praised," smiled Sereda as she embraced both mages gingerly, conscious of her own wound. Noticing Neria's eyes drifting over the burn the dwarf waved her worry away. "Nothing fatal, just smarts. Aedan's been forcefeeding me elfroot any time we see the blighted weed. I'll be happy not to see that plant for the rest of my life."

"I'm sorry. I can't heal it...I...my mana is drained," apologised Neria, wondering if she had anything stronger in her satchel to help the dwarf.

"It's just a scar, Neri, barely a wound anymore. See? Almost healed," smiled Sereda, good naturally. "Besides, scars are a symbol of pride in Orzammar, and I got mine taking down a genlock emissary. My father couldn't even boast of such a feat."

"I'm just glad you're actually alive," sighed Daylen. "I think even Mahariel might crack a smile. I won't be able to heal his face when it shatters, but Maker, it will be worth it."

"Mahariel made it out?" asked Sereda. "What about Kallian and Faren?" Sereda's beaming smiles faltered at the sadness in the mage's eyes. She opened her mouth a few times to apologise, but she didn't have the words to describe their grief as it a lll came crashing back down.

Aedan slumped against a tree, Cat resting his great big head on his lap, nuzzling the man's hand. Neria sat down beside the warrior, along with Daylen and Sereda.

"I'm...I'm really sorry about Cailan," managed Neria, trying to keep her own voice even as the memory of watching his death through Aedan's eyes. Rebellious tears ran down her cheeks as she wrapped her small arms around Aedan, the large warrior shaking with tears of his own.

"He...He was one of my best friends...and I couldn't do anything," choked Aedan, gripping the elf tightly to him. Sereda rested a warm hand on his shoulder, making the human look over at her violet eyes.

"He died a warrior's death, Aedan. Your Maker will find a place for him beside his father, and he will be remembered as the brave King he was." The dwarf's voice was solemn and Aedan smiled in thanks, releasing Neria to let out a sigh, wiping his tears from his blood splattered face.

"Here." Daylen threw the two warriors a few rags from Neria's satchel to clean their faces. "Theron will be back shortly with water and then, we will have to decide where we are going."

"North." Theron's deep voice surprised the four Wardens, the Dalish man appearing like a spectre from the shadows of the swamp, sheathing his daggers. "I did not know who you were at first, but I am glad you both survived." The wolf padded away from Theron's feet, lying down by the cold remnants of his morning fire.

"I am sorry for your loss, Cousland. It is never easy to lose a brother."

"Thank you," managed Aedan through his shock. The Dalish man hadn't seen fit to talk to any of them except for Neria and Sereda, occasionally to needle Kallian, since they had left the Brecilian Forest. The battle had Ostagar had changed something in the dour elf, though and he passed the human his waterskin.

"What's north, Theron?" questioned Sereda as she accepted the waterskin from Aedan gratefully.

"There is a village, maybe a day and half north of here. I came across the fences of a farm and questioned a rather surprised and frightened girl. She called it Lothering." The Dalish man had sat down a little outside of their supportive circle, still not considering himself one of them and began to whittle some sticks he had collected into arrows with a practiced hand. Neria found the speed with which Theron worked fascinating. She could never move with such speed in any task, for fear of ruining it, but his hands seemed to work of their own accord.

"Lothering is a fairly large village," pointed out Aedan, knowing the history of the village as the place where both his and Cailan's great grandfathers had been slain together by Orlesians. "I know Leonas, the Arl of South Reach. He stays in Lothering through the summer months, he would have stationed there with the King's reserve and will give us sanctuary, supplies. He might know news of any other survivors."

"This man is..._family_?" questioned Theron cautiously. No doubt the intricate inter-marriaging of Ferelden's nobles and their many, sometimes fictitious, claims to certain bloodlines confused the Dalish. _Maker's breath, he should try looking at the Orlesian or Nevarran bloodlines one day_, thought Neria, wryly.

"Probably, at some point in history," shrugged Aedan. "More importantly he was my father's closest friend, my godfather and I am named for him. He will help us." Neria kept her mouth shut about Aedan's father's friends. From what she had seen at Highever the late Teyrn had counted Howe among them.

"Then, it's settled," shrugged Sereda, sliding down to lie at the base of the tree. "I want to sleep first, at least for a few hours. I'm not made of Stone, regardless of what the Shaperite wants to tell us, and I have been awake for two days now."

Aedan grunted in agreement and leaned his head against the trunk of the tree, nodding off almost instantly. Neria moved away as quietly as she could, trying to reorganise her limited healing supplies. They would need them until she got herself properly rested. She couldn't heal so much as a papercut in this state.

"Do you think we'll find any other survivors?" asked Theron, tentatively from where he was fletching his arrows, his deep green eyes absorbed in his task.

"I don't know, Theron, but I hope so."

"_O mar'av'dirtha vir'uren'hartha Evanuris,_" whispered Theron, solemnly and Neria nodded. She didn't know as much Elven as he or even Kallian, but enough to understand the sentiment behind those words.

* * *

_T/N O mar'av'dirtha vir'uren'hartha Evanuris - From your lips to the Creators' ears (a really devout and heartfelt way of saying 'may the Creator's hear you/your prayer)_


	18. Dandelions, Wolves and Falling Leaves

**Dandelions, Wolves and Falling Leaves**

_And here comes a new chapter. Faren is getting easier to write for, so I'm hoping the other men will start getting easier as I become more familiar with their personalities. I hope you enjoy my playing around with Bioware's property._

* * *

Faren looked over at the blond warrior pulling out the long, wiry grass that surrounded the witches' hut in the swamp, knotting the weeds into some weird circular thing that made the dwarf damned uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable than those silent tears rolling down the man's boyish face. Both men glanced over at the close door of the hut, where Morrigan had disappeared only a few minutes ago to check on Kallian. The dwarf hoped the elfling would get her sleepy ass up soon.

Faren had no doubt the tough girl was alive, despite Alistair's worrying. He was also sure she might know better what to do about the weepy man making some sort of weird ass surfacer talisman out of swamp grass. Faren wasn't sure he had seen many toddlers, yet alone fully grown people, crying in Dust Town. That shit was likely to get you dead in short order.

So instead of awkwardly comforting the tall, heavily armoured man, Faren had taken to sharpening and cleaning their weapons and the ex-Templar's Grey Warden shield that he sent sad glances at, occasionally. He had already repaired and oiled his and Kallian's armour the first two days, patching up the tear in her shoulder guard where the hurlock's arrow had bled her out. He couldn't wash out the stain of that much blood loss though, or the memory of holding the wispy elf in his arms as a fucking _dragon_ grabbed them in its claws. No, that one was going to stay with him for a while, and Faren thanked the Stone and whatever Ancestors cared that he didn't have the ability to dream.

"Kallian!" Faren's head turned so fast at what might have been the first words out of Alistair's mouth since he'd woken up that he nearly pulled a muscle. Instead the dwarf beamed at the woozy looking elf walking gingerly toward them in nothing but a too big tunic and over-tight leggings that were probably the black haired witch's.

"Maker's breath, you're alive," breathed Alistair, bounding up to her in only two long strides, wrapping Kallian up in what looked like an uncomfortably tight embrace. The elf shot a pleading look at Faren as she stiffened at the sudden contact. Alistair seemed to realise she was uncomfortable, however, without Faren's interference and stepped back sheepishly.

"I...I'm sorry. I just...I thought you were dead," choked Alistair, clearly trying to keep that steady three day flow of tears he'd had going tamped down tightly.

"Never doubted you for a second, Dandelion," interrupted Faren with a quick smile for his friend, handing her newly repaired armour over. "Did what I could for that hole, but we need to get you some more durable armour. Too close a call, Dandelion." Kallian shot him a grateful smile for his interference as she started lacing up her jerkin over the shirt.

"Takes more than a few darkspawn to best me," grunted Kallian, tightening the buckles over her scrawny torso. She had lost some weight - _like there was any to lose_ \- while she was unconscious and it didn't fit quite right anymore. Nothing that a few hearty meals and some ale couldn't fix.

"Oh, and I did nothing, of course," came the old witch's sarcastic retort from where she sat knitting a truly hideous scarf.

"I-I didn't mean-" stammered Alistair, apologetically, but the old woman merely held up her hand, setting aside her knitting to stand.

"I am not offended, boy," croaked the old witch with a chuckle.

"Um...but what do we call you...you never gave us your name."

"And you never did ask," replied the woman with a sly grin. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose that will do."

"_The_ Flemeth? From the stories?" stammered the spiky haired warrior, stepping back from the woman just a little. Kallian's eyes were wide at the mention of the name. Faren was kicking himself he didn't know what these stories were; they were probably good and saucy.

"Andraste's clubbed foot, Daveth _was_ right," whispered Kallian, meeting the witch eye to eye. "You are the Witch of the Wilds."

"And what does that mean?" shrugged Flemeth. "I know a bit of magic and it has served you well, hasn't it?"

"And, frankly, who gives a nug's shit if she is this Witch of the Wilds. Loghain left us all for dead back there," pointed out Faren, practically.

"Loghain needs to be brought to judgement," scathed Alistair, those days of unstoppable tears suddenly boiling to the surface now as rage. "Why would he do this?"

"Now, that is a good question," mused Flemeth. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre. Perhaps he cannot see the evil behind it is the true threat."

"Whatever Loghain's insanity, he obviously thinks the darkspawn are a minor threat."

"You surfacers are well known for your ignorance of the darkspawn," grunted Faren. "Our history and yours is both full of such anecdotes. Dwarves have been fighting them non-stop between your Blights, when we can actually traverse the Deep Roads in relative safety, reclaim lost noble-caste shit and make a profit, but once they come crawling back into our homes you pretend like they don't exist."

"The Grey Wardens fight the darkspawn, Blight or no," retorted Alistair, hotly.

"And how many Wardens are there, exactly? In comparison to the armies of your Kings and shit. I ain't never seen a surfacer who wasn't made to fight them in the Deep Roads fighting for us as allies for a change, and yet you all call on our expertise every century or so when you lose a few farms and a gangly noble to the beasts."

"Allies," whispered Kallian, a small smile lighting up her face. Faren and Alistair both turned to the elf, her weird whisper pulling them from their argument. "Oh, the treaties, you idiots. We have the treaties, Duncan gave them to Alistair before we left for the Tower, remember? The Dalish, Orzammar and the Circle of Magi; they all signed that pish, right?"

"You mean, you want to go to them and ask for help against the darkspawn?" gasped Alistair in disbelief.

"Well, we can't get to the archdemon ourselves if he's hiding behind a whole sea of ugly, can we? This is what Grey Wardens _do_, isn't it?" pushed Kallian, hands on hips, drumming her fingers over the hilt of her daggers. Faren shrugged. It couldn't be a worse idea than staying in the swamp and hoping the darkspawn didn't eat them...and, well, the whole end-of-the-world thing.

"Arl Eamon would help us," mused Alistair, earning a hard glare from Kallian.

"Why in the Void would we _need_ the Arl of Redcliffe and _why_ would he help a dwarf, an elf and some unimportant Junior Warden?" At least she seemed to know who the man was. From the title Faren could only suppose he was another surfacer diamond-blood, but they seemed to have just as many up here as down in Orzammar and he hadn't cared enough to learn the names of the deshyrs, so why would he bother learning these ones?

"Arl Eamon already _has_ an army," retorted Alistair, holding up a finger, counting up another he continued; "_And _Cailan was his nephew. He is an important man, second _only_ to Loghain, who is damned _traitor_. The Couslands are _dead_, so that leaves Eamon alone with the political pull to call a Landsmeet and put Loghain on trial for his crimes. So he has the means, the reasons and the right title to do this without splitting Ferelden in two again and pushing us into another war that leaves only scraps behind for the darkspawn, _and_ a way to fight them after."

"I gotta admit, Dandelion, Spike makes some solid points there. Noble-castes only listen to other noble-castes, so having one on our side will do a lot better than a dwarf, an elf and an unimportant Junior Warden, as you put it," shrugged Faren. He didn't have a head for politics, not on the levels the Grey Wardens must play at, but he was a _dwarf_, and every dwarf knew how that shit work.

"Fine," surrendered Kallian with a roll of her eyes and Faren suppressed a smile. She was a sore loser, just like Rita.

"Well, seems like you have a plan, then," smiled Flemeth, startling Faren, slightly. Between their arguing he had forgotten about the old witch who now smiled, showing disconcertingly pointed teeth. "Now, before you go, there is one more thing I can offer you-"

"The stew is bubbling, mother dear," called Morrigan, slinking over to them, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Shall we be having three guests, or none?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl-"

"Oh, what a shame-"

"-And you shall be joining them," finished Flemeth. Four pairs of eyes looked at the old woman in shock.

"What?" demanded Morrigan, her expression clearly one of rage at having a decision made for her. Faren could see the same defiant nature of Rita and Kallian both in the younger dark-haired witch.

"You heard me, girl," snapped the old woman, harshly. "Last time I checked, you had ears."

"I think it's a good idea," shrugged Faren and reeived Alistair's incredulous glare. "We don't have a mage, and that shit seems handy."

"Am I to have no say in this?" demanded Morrigan, hotly.

"Oh, you have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years," scoffed Flemeth. "As for you Wardens; consider this repayment for your lives." Her tone held sinister warning in it that crawled over Faren's skin. This was a woman who could rule a Carta of her own if she wasn't a hermit - _or is it __hermitess?_

"Ahh...not to...look a gift horse in the mouth, but...won't having an apostate _add_ to our problems?" questioned Alistair tentatively. No doubt while chanting _please don't turn me into a frog_ over and over in his mind.

"If you do not wish help from us _illegal_ mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower." Yep, her voice was just the right level of cold and sinister. That was the voice of a woman who had killed without her conscience ever nagging her for it.

"Point taken," conceded Alistair, quietly, nicely intimidated by what for all the world looked like a harmless old lady, and yet was so much more. Faren found he was rather in awe of her ability to wield the air around her words like that. That was a valuable skill to have in Dust Town, and not one he had really had to develop himself. He'd had a ruthless enough reputation and if that didn't solve his problems, his blades had.

"There is a village to the north where you can gather some information and stock yourselves," sighed Morrigan, shouldering what looked like a very light pack. There wasn't much in the way of material goods in the lives of two apostates in hiding on the surface. "Or I can be your silent guide if you'd prefer," added the witch with pursed lips that suggested she had no intention whatsoever to be silent.

"I'd rather you speak your mind," chuckled Kallian, recognising the challenge in the witch's eyes as she met her yellow gaze with a fiery one of her own.

"You'll regret that one, Warden," cackled Flemeth, her face unaffected by the glare her daughter shot her.

"Don't let the hut burn down while I'm gone, mother," snapped Morrigan.

"More likely you would return to see myself and my home eaten by the Blight, girl," retorted the old woman darkly. If the words affected Morrigan she refused to let it show. Their relationship was clearly only slighter warmer than his own with his mother, since it didn't look like either of them had any bruises blooming.

* * *

Kallian was bent over a pitifully small fire with a few swamp rats on a spit that Morrigan had caught. Despite being an elf, and a killer rogue at that, Kallian was as terrible at woodcraft and hunting as Faren was. Alistair was a sullen quiet shadow that loomed to other side of the fire working on that weird talisman of his, but it turned out the _mage_ could hunt. Rather, Morrigan could turn into a sodding wolf and hunt what little wildlife hadn't fled the darkspawn.

That had been a...disconcerting discovery for the dwarf. Faren had got used to the idea of fire and ice and sodding lightning flying over his head when he fought beside Daylen and Neria. A rather sexy, scantily clad woman who could grin so murderously as fur rippled over her body and she morphed into a wolf in front of his very eyes...well, Brosca Faren needed a fucking drink and no enterprising idiot had thought to set up a tavern in the middle of a swamp.

"Morrigan, have you ever been hunted by the Chantry?" asked Kallian, looking over her shoulder at the witch where she sat some distance from the campfire.

"My mother has been hunted from time to time, yes," shrugged Morrigan. "Fool Templars like Alistair, which should tell you how successful they were."

Faren looked over at the blond warrior, but he was deaf to the world, wrapped up in his own thoughts and his task of weaving grass together to make his creepy Chantry talisman. Kallian frowned a little at the insult, but didn't comment on the witch's pointed remarks. Faren could understand the woman's point of view, it was the same he and Kallian shared for nobles.

"Flemeth made a bit of a game of it," continued the nonplussed mage, stretching like a cat. "The Templars would come again and she would look and smile and say the fun was to begin once more."

"Fun?" chuckled Kallian, disbelievingly. "You found it fun?"

"I found the _game_ fun. I was too young to understand the truth behind what was happening. Flemeth would warn them - _once_ \- and it was a warning they inevitably failed to heed and then, the true game began," shrugged Morrigan. To her it was as normal as it had been for Faren to walk pass the fresh corpses of starved men, women and children in Dust Town. Probably as normal as seeing the neighbours lock their doors when the human noble-castes walked into Kallian's Alienage and pray they found a victim that wasn't one of them to terrorise, rape or murder. "Often Flemeth would use me as bait; a little girl to scream, run and lure the Templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom."

"Did you actually kill them all?" piped up Faren, curiously.

"Me? No," laughed Morrigan. "I never did any of the actual killing...until later. Even then, Flemeth was a glutton for _that_ sort of thing. Thankfully, the Wilds is a vast place so once they found us Flemeth would simply move us elsewhere. I did not understand the danger we faced until I was much older. I had never heard of 'apostates' or 'maleficarum' before."

"They got what they deserved," spat Kallian in disgust, an old anger in those weird elfy eyes of hers. It wasn't something Faren wanted to drag up for the elf, but he was curious as to where it came from, what new pain it hid in his friend's dark past.

"They are merely scared little boys who thinking locking up all mages is protecting them," shrugged Morrigan. "And perhaps they are right, but those of us who prefer freedom see no reason to submit."

"I agree completely," nodded Faren.

"Yes, you wear the brand of Orzammar's slum, do you not, dwarf?" questioned Morrigan.

"Both on my skin and beneath it, Lady Wolf," smirked Faren. Morrigan seemed to consider his nickname and she hadn't turned him to a pile of smoking ash, so he could only imagine she approved of the title. "Just as Kallian is marked by the Alienage. You won't find submission is an easy option for either of us."

"Oh? I had thought the city elves weak," remarked Morrigan, turning a careful and considering stare toward the elf as she took the rats off the fire.

"So did the nobles, witch," retorted Kallian. "Until I painted one of their estates with the blood of the Bann's entire household and strung him up like Saturnalia bunting over his father's rooms. They need reminding how dangerous even a small blade can be."

"You are a very interesting woman, Warden. Not at all what I expected with my mother's stories of domesticated elves in human cities."

"Because a shem who hides in the depths of a swamp must know so much of the world," remarked Kallian, snidely.

"Too true," laughed Morrigan. "She hasn't been a part of the outside world for a very long time." With that the matter was forgotten, or at least they didn't talk much about it, choosing instead to eat the tasteless, chewy swamp rat in silence. Not even Kallian could make this shit taste good.

* * *

"Well, this looks friendly, Dandelion," muttered Faren, catching sight of the armed men blocking the road. Kallian tensed beside him, ahead Morrigan's saunter slowed only slightly. Alistair didn't seem to notice any change, staring at his shuffling feet behind them.

"Hold there, friend!" called a jovial man with two shortswords strapped to his back and a jagged scar over his forehead. He grinned as his eyes roved predatorily over the ragtag group and Faren could just see the bandit's thinking. Some noble-caste's pet elf in ill-fitted leathers, a camp follower barely wearing clothes, a dwarven smith's apprentice or merchant and a dullard boy in his father's armour; easy marks.

"There's a toll on this road, friends."

"Oh, you're toll collectors?" It was definitely Kallian who asked the question, but that was not the voice Faren recognised. She smiled all shy and sweet, looking up at the taller man through long lashes. Suddenly the terrifying, ruthless woman Faren knew slipped behind the mask of a sweet, defenseless elf and the idiots were so easily fooled.

"Oh, yes. We are collecting tolls to repair the Imperial Highway, " smiled the man, looking over the elf hungrily. "For you and your friend, however, we could make an exception," added the man with a smirk. Faren almost felt sorry for the fool as Kallian blushed and stepped closer to the defenceless idiot. She looked up at him with the most nauseating look in her big eyes and smiled, but it was the sharp grin Faren knew all too well. Better than any scout signal.

"I think not," whispered Kallian, driving her knife into the man's groin savagely, kicking him back as the man screamed in an agony that made the dwarf flinch. He drew his own knives, throwing one directly into the throat of an archer as he spun into combat. Fire exploded in the face of the first man he engage, a hulking brute with a greatsword and Faren ducked, sling the man's stomach open as a wolf jumped over his crouched body to rip out the brute's throat.

"I'm sorry. Am I too quick for you?" taunted Kallian as she danced out of a desperate swing of a blade, carving up her opponent with that vicious smile of hers, making Faren laugh. The skirmish was quick and bloody. Alistair had only just drawn his own sword by the time the last man fell, drowning in his own blood at Kallian's feet. She kicked the brute away with a disgusted snarl.

"That was rather satisfying," smirked Morrigan, standing there all 'human' again, wiping the blood off her lips. Faren tried not to shudder.

"Let's strip them," shrugged Kallian. "If they've been doing this shit for a while they should have some good loot for us." Faren nodded at the pragmatism and he and the witch joined her in rifling through the bandits' gear for anything of use while Alistair stared at them horrified at their nonchalance.

"Hands in the air!" commanded a deep voice behind them and the back of Faren's neck tingled with the supernatural sense that there was a weapon pointed at him.

"Turn slowly. No sudden movements or I'll split your skulls open with my arrows." Faren _knew_ that voice! He couldn't believe his ears as he turned to face the man holding them up, but Blight damn it all, there was that all-too-recognisable wolf growling at the heels of an elven archer, his face marked with the tattoo of falling leaves.

"By the Creators," whispered Theron as his eyes landed on Kallian's blood splattered face. "You're alive?"


	19. Happy Reunions

**Happy Reunions**

_I think I wrote and rewrote this chapter about ten times before it was something I didn't immediately hate. This is probably as good as it's going to get at this point, so I hope you can like my perversion of Bioware's property._

* * *

The mural painted on the ceiling above Daylen was beautiful and intricate, absorbing all the attention of the silent elf that lay beside him on the bed. There was King Calenhad himself, too detailed to have been painted from descriptions of the legendary Ferelden king. No the artist responsible for this artwork had seen Calenhad with their own eyes and painted his face with a well practiced hand. Aedan shared this room with Daylen and had helpfully informed the mage the artist's name was Briallen Sayer, a carpenter's daughter who had been so taken with the young conqueror that in her dotage she had painted this room for her Bann to be used by the King's son as his residence when he visited Lothering. Apparently the old painter had died long before Weyland I ever graced this room with his presence, and never got to hear any praise the King may have had for the beautiful depiction of his father's famous arrival in Lothering.

Daylen looked down at the pale elf who lay with her head on his shoulder, sharp eyes dissecting the mural like an art chronicler. Neria had barely spoken on the trip to Lothering and since being here she had worked tirelessly with the village's only healer to help the refugees that still swamped what was little more than an important trading post surrounded by farmland. She hadn't even so much as twitched when Aedan's temper flared at news Bann Bryland had moved north with Loghain and the King's reserve.

The lordling and Sereda had gone out to hunt for some orphan boy's mother, a paying contract from the village's Chanter's Board. They had a little gold from the warriors' work and the staff on Bryland's estate had been more than happy to put them up in joint guest rooms. There hadn't been much left behind by the Bann, but the mages both had some clean clothes and the warriors' replaced their damaged armour. Theron had just curled his lip at the meagre offerings and decided to stay in his Dalish armour, regardless of its damage and the villagers rather pointed glares.

None of this bothered Daylen as much as Neria's silence. Frankly, she had frightened him ever since the incident on the bridge. He wasn't likely to get a better chance to talk to her about it.

"Neri?" Those freakishly large blue eyes looked up at him, and Daylen swallowed his cowardice. "What happened on the bridge. You...you _left_. I thought I'd lost you forever."

Neria sighed heavily as she sat up, leaning against the headboard and looking up unseeingly at the painting. Carefully Daylen sat up beside her, watching her with worried eyes as he gave her what time she needed to formulate a response. Neria was always one to weigh her words carefully before she spoke.

"I thought I'd lost me, too, Dayle," whispered Neria, her fear peaking through the quiet words. Daylen took her shaky hand in his, stroking her small fingers gently and she smiled quickly in thanks.

"The books, even Wynne, nothing prepared me for the battle, Daylen." He could hear the tears she was choking back and kicked himself for not talking to her sooner. Neria was _terrified_ and he'd let her stew in that fear alone. "The Veil was so thin. So many emotions pulled so many spirits close to this world and I could feel it all over my skin. I could feel Duty, even stronger than in the repository back at the Circle Tower, Daylen. It was like the Harrowing, but worse. I felt every blow, every death as if it were my own and it...it overwhelmed me."

Daylen let her pause as she let out a shuddering breath, gripping his hand painfully in her own. He could bear a little pain for her, for her fear. It was the least Daylen could do for the only person to love him exactly as he was since his family had died.

"DUty took me away, I think they were trying to protect me. I came so close, Dayle...I nearly let it beat me." Her eyes locked on his and he realised the depth of her fears. She was more afraid of becoming an abomination than she was of dying, of being everything evil the Chant said magic was.

"So Duty took you to the Fade?" managed Daylen, keeping his own fear carefully locked down. This wasn't about him, or his selfish fear of losing her. This was entirely about Neria and Neria's fears.

"I think so. I don't remember, but it must have gone wrong because when I opened my eyes I was pulled elsewhere. I...I saw King Cailan die through Aedan's eyes. How is that even possible? I've never heard of any magic like that, well...not any magic that isn't - "

"You are not a blood mage, Neria." Daylen's voice was harsher than he wanted as he loosened his tight grip on the elf's fingers, returning to stroking the digits gently.

"There is no other explanation; that much dead, that much blood. Maybe my mana just used it without my consciously thinking about it."

"You've dreamt since then, Neria?" The elf nodded with a sigh. "And was Duty still there as they've always been to protect your dreams?"

"Yes..."

"Than it wasn't blood magic. It can't have been, Duty would never have stood for it; unconscious or not and you know that. Maybe this is something they didn't write about for fear-"

The door swung open and Daylen turned to shout at the interruption, but all words of anger died on his lips. Like a dream there stood Kallian, a big bright smile on her haggard face, leathers splattered with dry blood. Daylen tapped Neria on the shoulder and the mage looked up and squealed as she jumped from Daylen's arms and ran to the city elf, almost bowling Kallian over as she hugged the thief tightly.

"You're alive," sobbed Neria, hiccupping with her tears, pulling back to stare at the other elf's tear streaked face as if disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.

"I see no one is happy I lived," grumbled a voice behind the elf that made Daylen laugh. He finally got off the bed and embraced Kallian, offering Faren a hearty wrist clasp.

"How in the name of the Maker's third nipple did you sneaky sods get out of that tower alive?" managed Daylen through the cheek hurting grin he couldn't shake.

"We had help," laughed Kallian, gesturing behind her to the dark haired witch from the Wilds, Morrigan. Daylen couldn't stop himself from noticing she was still wearing that..._nice_ outfit of hers.

"Alistair?" smiled Neria, approaching the templar carefully. Even Daylen couldn't hate the blond man in this moment, not with the joy of seeing his friends alive, or with the rather broken look in his puppy dog eyes. Neria wrapped her arms gently around the warrior and Alistair returned the gesture, holding on to the elven mage like he was a drowning man holding on to some flotsam in the middle of storm.

"I need a fucking drink," grumbled Faren, flopping down on the bed, Kallian joining him shortly and kicking off her muddy boots.

"Shorty makes a solid point. Any booze in this fancy manor?" Daylen chuckled a little.

"It's a noble's residence, of course there's liquor. Mahariel, can you help me get a barrel from the cellar. I'm sure the Bann won't miss one barrel of mead in the middle of a Blight."

Daylen left the others to catch up, the Dalish elf following him silently.

"It's crazy they're alive," sighed Daylen as he lit the torches in the cellar with little more than a snap of his fingers. Behold, the terrifying mage and his room lighting abilities.

"No more crazy than our own survival. They had help, just as we did."

"Help? You mean the dragon?" asked Daylen, looking over his shoulder at the slightly less taciturn hunter. Surviving a massacre has a way of breaking even the hardest shells, and Mahariel had actually been speaking more than Neria had since Ostagar.

"Yes. Brosca and Tabris...they both mention a dragon landing on the Tower, as well as aid from the old witch and her daughter."

"What I would give for the daughter to give me some aid," mumbled Daylen, but the mage knew from Mahariel's frown the elf had heard him.

"Are all humans as crass as you are?"

"Only the good ones, Mahariel, only the good ones. This barrel will do." Mahariel shook his head in disgust, as if the haughty elf didn't rub one out every now and again like the rest of them, lifting the barrel over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. "Damn, Mahariel. You missed your calling as a warrior."

"It's no heavier than a fully grown Wilds elk," grunted the Dalish man as he ascended the stairs ahead of Daylen. The mage shrugged and followed him back to the room. Less work and still mead, a win-win situation anyway he span it.

"Shit," swore Faren as the elf placed the barrel on the end table. "Where you hiding that strength, Tree-Face? Didn't know a scrawny shit like you could carry a damn barrel of mead." Th Dalish elf merely shrugged and took a seat on the Orlesian rug that hosted Kallian and Neria, the two girls sitting with their arms around one another and talking in quiet voices. Daylen smiled while Faren tapped the barrel like a good dwarf and passed around cups of foaming mead. It was good for Neria to have a girl she could talk to. She hadn't had that since Wynne had gone off to Ostagar. The thought brought a frown to Daylen's face before a cup of mead was thrust in front of him. _Maker dammit, you old bat, you better have made it out just like we did._

"So to survival against the odds?" suggested Kallian, solemnly.

"To the fallen," added Alistair quietly, drawing all eyes to him. Kallian nodded quietly and rose her cup solemnly.

"To the fallen," chorused the Wardens, even Morrigan murmured the words before they all took a sip of alcohol.

"Where are Precious and Shiny?" asked Faren. Clearly Neria had passed on their survival to the others and Daylen merely shrugged.

"They were heading to the tavern to tie up a job last I saw them," grunted Mahariel as he drained his mug in a single mouthful. Apparently, the Dalish could put it away.

"By the Ancestors," whispered a voice behind Daylen and the mage grinned.

"Speak of the deomn and they'll cross the Fade," murmured the mage, shaking his head.

"Sereda, bloody - shit." Daylen turned to see Aedan, steadying himself from walking into the dwarves warrior, his eyes wide in shock, Sereda as shocked as the nobleman.

"Not happy to see us, Shiny?" smirked Faren, raising his mug in a mock salute.

"How...what?" To see the grouchy man speechless was worth the price of admission in Daylen's opinion.

"What a sweet reunion," commented Morrigan, leaning back against the bed and watching it all through amused yellow eyes. Daylen's attention was caught by that low hanging top as it slipped to the side, promising more than it gave and he looked up, caught in that hard glare and knowing smirk of the witch. Hastily, he found anywhere else to look.

"Aedan."

"Alistair." Aedan crossed the room and wrapped the blond man in a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, Ali. We couldn't stop Duncan, but he bought us the time to get out. He died a hero."

"Thank you," choked the templar. Daylen couldn't even be satisfied by the man's pain, not when he could see it mirrored in Neria's own eyes. "I'm sorry about Cailan."

"We were just toasting our fallen comrades, if you wanted to join us," offered Daylen, passing the nobleman his cup. The dark haired man took it solemnly as Faren passed Sereda a filled cup of her own. The two lifted their cups in a silent toast before they drank.

"May I join you?" asked an accented voice from behind Sereda and all eyes turned on a slight red haired woman in _Chantry_ robes of all the Blight-damned things.

"Sorry, this is Leliana and she will be joining us," introduced Aedan as he took a seat beside his blond childhood friend.

"I mean no offence by this, lady," coughed Faren, clearing his throat. "But why exactly do we need a priest?"

"Turns out the sister led a bit more of a colourful life before she came to Lothering," managed Sereda, unbuckling her heavy armour which Daylen only just noticed sported a new dent in the chest plate from what looked like a shield edge. "We ran into some of Loghain's men at the tavern, accusing us of regicide and the nice lady here had the man on the floor before Aedan or myself had time to react, an arrow pointed at his throat."

"You're an archer?" questioned Mahariel, distrust colouring the hunter's voice. Daylen chuckled to himself. The elf had as much reason as himself or the witch to distrust some Chantry twit.

"I have nothing on your peoples' talents, sir, but I have a little skill. I offered to put it to use in aid of the Wardens and your companions thankfully saw worth in such things."

"Wardens accept whatever help is given," reminded Aedan, knowing his histories well. Daylen sighed heavily. "We are in no position to turn way help, no matter what form it presents itself."

"Aedan has a point."

"That's the most we've heard out of you since we left the Wilds," snorted Morrigan derisively. "You done contemplating your bellybutton, then? Thought falling on your sword was too much effort?"

"Haven't you ever lost anyone?" shouted Alistair, on his feet like lightning, but Sereda and Aedan were faster and the two were stronger than one man. "What would you do if your mother died?"

"Before or after I stopeed laughing?" cackled Morrigan, clearly unfazed by Alistair's flare of temper.

"You should leave," sneered Neria, her voice colder than Daylen had heard it in a long time.

"'Tis no bother to me. You can keep your pet Chantry fools to entertain you instead. What a pair they make," snorted the witch as she rose haughtily from the floor and stalked from the room.

"Can we all just drink and leave the drama for another time?" suggested Faren, rolling his eyes. "I'm fucking beat and I don't want to keep you all from killing each other. Just pour Red a drink and let's get back to this, eh?"

* * *

Daylen's head was pounding, as though a whole orchestra had managed to squeeze in there and start playing the Roar of Caedmon at top volume. The mage sat up, ignoring his stomach's protests as he rolled Neria off his shoulder, the elf mumbling in her sleep as she turned toward Alistair and Aedan, where the pair lay sprawled on the floor. The bed was taken up by Leliana on her side, Sereda sprawled face down on the pillows and Faren snoring on his back at the foot of the bed with Aedan's Mabari.

Outside there were voices and Daylen sighed. No doubt Mahariel and Kallian, nowhere to be seen in the passed out mess, were trying to kill one another somewhere else in the manor. He didn't really want to deal with it, but the thought of cleaning up the mess Kallian would make when she killed the Dalish hunter made his stomach turn over.

"The shemlen is never going to agree with this," whispered Mahariel's voice as Daylen managed to stumble into the dining hall and find the two elves, thankfully without blades or bow drawn. The witch sat with her feet up on the Bann's table, sipping at a cup of red wine that made Daylen's stomach heave.

"Which one? Me or Cousland?" grunted Daylen as he found a seat, holding his head in his hands. "How are the two of you even awake and functioning right now?"

"I grew up on Alienage moonshine, Amell, it's going to take more than fancy lordling mead to knock me on my arse," scoffed Kallian, pushing a pitcher of water in the mage's direction.

"Yeah, you have an excuse, Mahariel? This some elven thing? Can't get hangovers? Because sign me the fuck up," muttered Daylen, darkly as he drank the water, thankful despite his tone.

"Elfroot tea," shrugged the Dalish man, placing a few dried leaves in front of the mage. "What do they teach you in your Circles?"

"Very little, I'm sure," smirked Morrigan, watching him over the lip of her goblet of wine.

"What are you arguing about anyway?" asked Daylen, throwing the leaves into his cup and heating the water with his hands. Kallian glanced over at Mahariel which drew Daylen's attention away from his hangover cure. "What is it?"

"We sort of recruited someone," shrugged Kallian, her nonchalance not remotely believable as the mage sat back, quietly grateful as he sipped his tea. His stomach was already feeling steadier.

"Oh sweet Andraste. What kind of murderer did you pick up, Kalli?" At his words a veritable giant stepped into the room, a hulking man standing seven feet high with grey skin and eyes and an unreadable taciturn face. Daylen recognised the Qunari prisoner immediately, even dressed in ill fitting splint mail and no longer sitting cross legged in his cage. "Are you insane?"

"I told you," retorted Mahariel and Kallian shot him a glare.

"Sten is as much a murderer as I am and yet, Duncan recruited me for the Wardens, Daylen."

"That is not gonna fly with Aedan, or Neria. He killed a family in Lothering."

"And I killed a Bann and his entire household, Amell," snapped Kallian forcefully. "Faren's killed countless men and women working for the Carta in Orzammar. Sereda was accused and found guilty of murdering her brother. You and Neria helped a blood mage. We are _all_ killers, Daylen. Sten wants to help fight the Blight, just as much as we do."

"I'm too hungover to argue this shit. Hit Aedan with it before you give him tea, you might get a win that way."

"Please, he can act like he's still a nobleman or he can sack up and act like a Warden. If he wants to keep his pet crazy Orlesian I can keep Sten. Wort case scenario he would make a great pack mule, right?" added Kallian with a grin. Daylen managed a smile at that shaking his head.

"You're mad, you know that right?" Kallian beamed at him, a smile as bright and rare as Neria's.

"You drink a little blood_ one time_ and suddenly, everyone's calling you crazy."


	20. A Mage, Two Elves and a Qunari

**A Mage, Two Elves and a Qunari Walk Into a Forest...**

_A bit of an interlude before any real mission in the very long Grey Warden quest. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

"There is absolutely no point in all of us going the same bloody direction," snarled Kallian, trying valiantly not to shout at the idiot shem lordling before her.

Without Bryland's aid in Lothering, Alistair had brought up Arl Eamon again, an idea Cousland pounced on. Kallian wanted to huff they didn't need some noble shit's support, but the elf had been around human society her whole life. They might listen to Cousland, maybe even Alistair as a former Templar, but the court and commonfolk alike were not gonna believe the words of three elves, a mage and two dwarves over Loghain Mac Tir.

Kallian _got_ that. What she didn't understand was why they needed all eight Wardens to walk into Redcliffe castle together to meet with the fucking Arl, not when they had other allies that needed to be contacted with just as much haste. The darkspawn didn't boil out of the ground to take a leisurely stroll through Ferelden.

"I think Kallian has a point," ventured Neria, carefully, her soft voice cutting through the antagonism in the dining hall. "I mean, the Dalish, for one are not known for staying in one place too long, and with the Blight..."

"Most of the clans would have already moved north toward the Free Marches," agreed Mahariel. "If any have lingered at all we won't have much time to find them and the Brecilian forest is a big place."

"What do you suggest, then?" Aedan all, but snapped. Kallian glared at the human. Clearly the little prince hadn't had to deal with _not_ being in charge much in his life. Certainly not around people like them.

"If you want to reach the Dalish we need to leave now, and I will need to be in that party. They'll trust me over any of you."

"I can speak elven just as well as Mahariel," added Kallian. She wasn't about to go about visiting fat nobles if she could help it. Self righteous Dalish was the lesser of two fucking annoying scenarios to live through. She could punch a Dalish elf in the face.

"I would volunteer, to give you another elf and some magic, but...Redcliffe is also close enough to the Circle I can secure the First-Enchanter's promise of aid better than Daylen could," added Neria diplomatically, making Daylen laugh.

"Yeah, you're much better with Circle politics than I am. I can go with Kalli and Mahariel. They won't like me much, but Duncan said they respect the Wardens and they seem to like magic a lot more than the Circle or a nobleman would. Besides I can mix health potions as well as you can, just so long as no one gets a life threatening wound we should be fine," shrugged Daylen.

"You're a bit low on brute strength with two rogues and a mage," pointed out Aedan grimly. Of course, he wasn't going to volunteer and apparently neither was Sereda. _Birds of a feather, those two._

"We can take Sten for back up and maybe add Morrigan for her woodcraft. Mahariel can't be the only scout we have out there," added Kallian.

"Fine, fine, you lot can go to the Brecilian forest and see if you can make contact with the elves while the rest of us move west toward Redcliffe. Does that sound good to everyone?" sighed Aedan and Kallian grinned at his defeat.

"It's a solid plan," agreed Sereda thoughtfully. "So Kallian, Theron, Daylen and Sten will go to the Brecilian forest and the rest of us will travel to Redcliffe?"

"I'd rather go with Dandelion, but you're going to need someone who get into places they shouldn't," shrugged Faren.

"I feel no desire to go to this noble's castle or the mage prison, for that matter, but if you encounter trouble from this Loghain in Redcliffe you'll need more than Chantry healing," surmised Morrigan with a pointed look at Neria the blonde elf returned.

"Fine, we should leave now if we want to reach Redcliffe this week," grumbled Aedan, shouldering his pack and adjusting his sword belt.

Kallian made sure to farewell Faren and Neria personally. The dwarf gave her a squeeze when she grasped his wrist.

"Don't get your scrawny ass killed, Dandelion," smiled Faren and Kallian winked.

"Don't get your stony ass thrown in the dungeons." Neria gave her a tight hug.

"I wish you didn't have to go, but it's the right decision," choked the mage, tears glistening in her eyes. Kallian patted the sweet girl on the cheek.

"I'll be fine. It shouldn't take too long and we'll meet you in Redcliffe." Daylen and Neria's farewell looked a lot harder and Kallian, and the others, left the room to give the childhood friends a little privacy.

* * *

It had been a week. Kallian didn't know what she had expected, stepping under the emerald canopy of the Brecilian four days ago, but this heavy silence that pervaded every moment, punctuated only by the heavy footfalls of Daylen and Sten was not it. She could see Theron and his wolf up ahead, turning to shoot a glare at the Qunari warrior and human mage every now and again.

It wasn't their fault. Sten was nearly seven feet of just...grey skinned muscle, really, and Daylen was about as coordinated as baby deer, but he tried to walk quietly. He just couldn't. Neither had ever really had a need to creep like the hunter and the thief. For the umpteenth time Kallian wished they had brought Morrigan. She could have turned into a wolf and gone on ahead to find the Dalish with Atisha.

"You'd be better off without us," sighed Daylen as the four stopped by a clear stream to lunch. The mage looked up at Kallian with his dark chocolate eyes and she shrugged, tearing her bread in silence. "It's not going to hurt my feelings if you say as much, Kalli. I know that the Qunari and I are..."

"Loud," finished Sten with a nod, his grim expression somewhat cracked with his confusion as he studied the oatmeal biscuit in his hand. "What is this?"

"It's a biscuit, Sten. It won't bite you," smiled Kallian. She found she rather liked the calm giant, even if he had tried to debate her gender with her. Kallian had left that conversation back on the road where it belonged, and hoped the damned thing wouldn't come back up again. It would be a shame if she had to kill the Qunari.

"Ha. I would bite it harder," grunted Sten and Daylen looked between the elf and the Qunari in shock.

"Did he just make a joke?" whispered Daylen, making Kallian giggle. "Is that allowed in the Qun?"

"What's your deal with Sten, Dayle?" chuckled Kallian. Since they'd left Lothering, the mage had said little more than five whole words to the giant warrior.

"Umm...he's a murderer?"

"So am I and we get along just fine. That bullshit might work on Neria, Daylen, but you're gonna have to do better than that with me," added Kallian pointedly and the mage sighed, running his hand through his unkempt dark hair and over the light beard that had reappeared since they left the manor. Beards were so odd to Kallian, even having seen them on city guards and various shems in Denerim. She wondered briefly if they were soft like the hair on her head, or if they were as coarse as they appeared, like the wild curls that grew between her legs. She'd never had nor wanted the opportunity to put her hands on one before.

"The Qunari are worse than the Templars about magic. They sew the lips of their mages and put them on leashes like war dogs."

"Shit. I mean...well...yeah, fuck. I don't think Sten would do that, to you, to a Warden, but yeah fuck that." Kallian couldn't imagine the horror of a life like that. Wouldn't it be better to end it all on one's own terms than live a life of...well, it sounded worse than slavery, to be honest.

"I think I know where to find a clan camping here still." Mahariel's voice jolted Kallian from her morbid daydreaming. "_Ir abelas_. I did not mean to startle you."

"You didn't," grunted Kallian. "What were you saying?"

"There are markers here, left by the Ilen clan who tend to wander closer to the Wilds. Such things are apparent to those who know what to look for," added Theron with a shrug.

"Your clans leave markers?"

"Yes, for other clans. Arlathvhen is only once a decade, but if we travel close to another clan it is considered polite to meet with them, trade goods, new lore and occasionally clan members."

"Woah, you trade people? Like slaves?"questioned Daylen, aghast. Mahariel met the shocked stare of the mage icily.

"Slavery is what your people do, _dahn'direlan_," snapped Theron. Kallian rubbed her face in exasperation. Why did she have to be the level headed one? She _almost_ missed Aedan in that moment.

"Well, I don't speak elven, but I do know an insult when I hear it," sneered Daylen. "I think-"

"Nope," interjected Kallian, stepping between the bickering hunter and mage. "We aren't doing this. There is a very powerful, somewhat unhinged Teyrn who wants us dead, a Blight that could end the world, an entire country to trek across in the hopes of finding people who won't scream and run at the sight of darkspawn and I do not have the patience to deal with your fucking bickering right now!"

"Fine," sighed Daylen. "I'll leave you lovebirds to your elfy discussions." Kallian glared at the mage as he moved over to Sten, sitting beside the Qunari giant in moody silence. _At least it's silence_, pointed out a voice in Kallian's mind.

"How about you try _not_ biting Dayle's head off when he asks a question, Theron?"

"He made my people sound synonymous to _Tavinte,_" growled Theron and Kallian rolled her eyes at the tall elf.

"He asked a sodding question. You have to know how that would sound to an outsider. The thought makes me uncomfortable as well; trading people, family, like that."

"It is not unwilling. Some clans have too many _eralan_, or too many _ghi'myelan_ and not enough _halla'amelan_ or _ajuelan_. Such trades enrich the clans with necessary skills. My own mother was traded to the Sabrae clan even though she was the First of the Mahariel clan because had three _eralan_ and a young, healthy Keeper already and Sabrae was in need of a Keeper when theirs was ailing. This is not the same as _slavery_."

"Yeah, and some of us did not grow up with this being the norm, Theron. If you said _that_ to Daylen he would not have reacted the way he did. By Andraste's knickers you have worse people skills than I do, and that's saying something, Mahariel," sighed Kallian. This was sodding exhausting. "Sod it, moving on; the Dalish? You said you can find them?"

"Yes," grunted Theron, clearly glad for the change in subject, even if he was still tense as a drawn bow. "I can probably contact them myself by tomorrow if you want to make camp with the others."

"The last time you were here, Mahariel, you got attacked by darkspawn. I don't think it's smart to send you out without backup. Two Wardens is better than one."

"The Dalish will trust me-"

"And they'll just have to get over themselves. This isn't a negotiation, Mahariel," asserted Kallian, standing her ground on the matter. _Stupid, hard headed fool._ "I am just as quiet as you and I'm with you, whether you want it or not. End of discussion." The hunter grunted, clearly annoyed, but Kallian knew it was far smarter than sending the Dalish man out alone with his wolf and hoping the fool didn't get his ass killed and fuck up any chance they had of contacting the Dalish whatsoever.

Kallian relayed the plan to both Sten and Daylen, who had cooled off some, and both agreed it was the best option they had of finding any Dalish quickly. Time was of the essence. They spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a defensible camping position, finding a well hidden cave upstream and began making camp. Theron had gone out hunting, and Kallian wished for anything, but rabbit as she set up traps in the forest around their cave, being sure to mark their positions for the Dalish man. They had come up with a system in the last week, the hunter teaching her to mark the trees the same way Dalish hunters did to warn others of a bear trap or rabbit snare.

Daylen had the fire going by the time Kallian returned, Sten sitting in silence by the mouth of the cave, his back to the fire and his huge two handed sword lying across his knees. Theron was already there, two turkeys on a spit over the flames, turning the meat in silence, his eyes glancing up for a moment as she pulled her cloak off to sit on.

"I made some extra potions while you were out, Kalli," offered Daylen, handing her some glass vials with a lop sided smile. "A peace offering for annoying you earlier."

"You know how to treat a girl," smiled Kallian, carefully sliding the bottles into the pouch she wore on her belt before she slowly and methodically began removing her leather armour. Carefully placing it beside her bedroll, Kallian also slipped a small knife under her roll and lay her shortswords within arm's reach. She had to be sure she would be ready if they were attacked in the night. Travelling had its own perils the city elf hadn't really thought much of when she first left Denerim..._nearly two months ago now? _

"I've had a lot of practice apologising to Neria," shrugged Daylen, stretching over his own bedroll, pulling his cloak over his knees. "I know she seems like a harmless, sweet girl, but when she gets mad she's just as frightening as you are."

"You miss her?"

"Like mad," sighed Daylen, watching the fire as it leapt and danced under Theron's attentions. "More I'm worried about her. She's strong, but it comes with a price. I just hope the others can look after her...she isn't like the rest of us."

"Yeah. She's actually a good person, all the way through. I'm not saying we're awful or anything," added Kallian as Theron shot her a look over the fire. "But any one of us would kill without a second thought if it meant survival..."

"Neria wouldn't," agreed Daylen. They all fell into a sort of melancholic silence that Kallian didn't like at all.

"I have a question, Dayle."

"I bet," smirked the mage, winking at her and Kallian threw a boot at him with a laugh.

"I just wanted to ask you what the beard feels like."

"Oh?" smirked Daylen as he leant toward the city elf, wagging his eyebrows. "You wanna touch it?"

"Ugh, not if you're gonna make it sound creepy like that. I'll just ask Faren," glared Kallian and Daylen laughed.

"Because he wouldn't ever make it dirty?"

"Men are impossible."

"Go on, touch it, Kallian. Live life on the edge," smirked Daylen, leaning even closer. "I promise I won't bite unless you ask me to."

"I will stab you, mage." Kallian glared at the laughing mage who put his hands up in surrender.

"I'm only playing. I understand your people don't grow facial hair. I used to be so jealous of the elven men at the Circle. They never had to shave their faces just to please a woman. Go ahead, Kalli, sate your curiosity." She eyed the smiling mage skeptically, narrowing her eyes as she reached out place her hand against the hair on his jaw. It was...odd. It was soft, but also rough and tickled at her palm.

"Weird," concluded Kallian, pulling her hand away. "Isn't it itchy?"

"Only when it first started growing in. It's better now it's longer, "shrugged Daylen as Theron pulled the birds off the fire and began pulling apart the meat, the smell filling the cave, luring even Sten back toward the fire as the four ate in companionable silence, enjoying the roasted turkey after a week of rabbit stew.

* * *

_T/N Tavinte: Tevinter (pretty obvious)_

_Dahn'direlan: One who punches bees (basically means someone's an idiot)_

_eralan: mage_

_ghi'myelan: another word for hunter/scout_

_halla'amelan: halla keeper_

_ajuelan: crafter/artist_


End file.
